Rot

You’d like life, lots and lots.
You’re not so keen on rot.
But rot gives you the most

Life—life likes lots of hosts.
Where the tree falls, rot blooms.
At the waste site, rot blooms.

Parks are hard work and nice,
But you pay a high price
In the thread count of lives.

You want lush? Leave what’s dead
Where it died. The wild thrives
On what deaths do for lives.

The Small Isles

We can’t break your heart.
We’re from the wrong time.
We might make you wish
You weren’t stuck with us,
Weren’t left with the gulls,

The storms and salt spray,
As if you were here
And not where you are,
Which is some place right
Now where your heart breaks.

Blind Ghosts

You slow, you can’t stop, on your way.
We did not think you would get here.
We thought it was too dark for you.

Can the dead see? It makes no sense
To say we’re blind. Sense makes no sense.
It gets it as a gift from skulls.

Too much life is too hard to leave,
You’d think, and yet young and old leave.
You will be here, lost in the dark,

All your life, but we who are dead,
Or what’s left of the dead, words, blind
Ghosts who know our way, will find you.

We can help you get back to not,
Where you were when life dragged you out,
We just can’t go in there with you,

Just as far as our lives took us.
If we can take you to your door,
Your steps with us will help the next.