The Cold Air

Drawn sounds pushed from chest into air.
From mouth.
Open,
Cold teeth.
Tongue,
Succumbed obelisk,
Air becomes cold.
Molecules stand still.

The Hole

A singularity,
The darkness that use to be your mouth,
An absence,
A hole through the centre of the world,
A pit immune to magick,
A well that captures memory,
A black hole where your mouth use to be.

So There Are No Stars

So close, so there are no stars.
Like words without sounds.
Or cold spots on floor boards without past possession.
A hollow thing.
Like a passage without rite.
Or a signal without a gesture, returning uncast.
A writing of circles held below the oceans and the lakes and the rivers.
Weighed down by buried dreams and drowned desire.
Everything falls apart.
And everything moves in circles.
Everything will be beneath the water.
Even the stars.

Fragments

From drowning sky, I hear you. From burning ground, I see you. From buried waters, I touch you. Though without time and place. Though without point or purpose. I reach my hands out to the last star of the morning. Some raise their taloned limbs. Some insight violence. Others close their eyes to sleep. I can not believe. Doors are marked with crosses by claws. From the well and the altar and the pool and the mound, I hold you in my arms.