streets go,
instants accumulate
in late nights,
language isolate,
without an alphabet
to give
perfect life,
unfinished.
Far away in
the moist mist,
slope rides
in the forest's cradle,
the silverback
bellows -
a refuge
long lost,
almost free.
Speaking through the
mouth of
the copper haired
girl of autumn,
shatter the
gilded bars
of identity,
river escapee.
Solitary,
the alchemy,
obsidian
to my heart,
back broken
beneath
wood skin,
sharklike,
all just to get there.
The forests wait,
next of dawn,
in a copper hair sky.
