The marsh mango held secrets colder than breath. Here, air hung low
thick with the host of things. With the sweet scent of moral decay
clinging to the shadows on death’s runway
The bayou as dark as bruised plums sucking, the sounds of the mango
with loneliness on life’s highway with a mournful cry from the heron’s
sky woven to the rustle of reeds.
Beneath a pale moon of slivered bones casting echoes of fingers
with eyes of obsidian looking deep into the soul, colder than the
depth of breath.
