(A blast from the past. Now with full audio.)
Roiling at the seams
in browned spots
the print, smeared
still holds flecks of the image
the profile was meant to be.
Lower, still
the ageless quality of a tree
rising from the hunched cranial
(let us admit: too large) cavity
rooted in the faded flesh
our fingerprints
so gently blurred;
without a stream to drink from
it curled and devoured
the paper that gave it breath.
Perhaps, even, its branches
would die to give us this moment.
I have heard it called quaint,
our gentle hording
of a memory,
but the thoughts that resurrected
the flesh beyond those roots
was once quite dear
though without the stream
it rippled free into distortion
like the beating of a dream
of a drum, of a thought;
the water carried me away
one day
rootless under the surface
with nothing but the edges
of a curling notion.
The Waking Den 