Category: Poetry

When holiest Shen walks, the moon gloams red. With each stride, her right foot steps into the future; her left, into the past. Like mourners, we cling to her hem, drawn in her wake from remotest village to black-stoned shore, to ailing tower long shucked of purpose. Our footprints fill her own, and in the filling are made deeper.

But holiest Shen does not ponder her passage. Nor does she sleep.

>> Shiva is the conversion system used for producing
oxygen from the planets rich carbon dioxide atmosphere. << >> Sand storms is when ghosts wheels of civilizations past
roll on soft ground in frustration, leaving no trails, but
wanting to be noticed. Wailing in the wind anyway. <<

Give me a spacetime

so you say “the lake”
so I know
to meet you in winter

when it’s frozen
beneath (us
holding hands).