i made a sound
by the riverbeds,
holding on to a pale
my father gave me
for comfort,
thinking about
the ashes
inside your cheekbones.
Morning
usually does not allow
for such thoughts
because her ghost does
not live upon my face
or within
my stomach,
so the thought
always fades
in to my breathing,
vibrating a body
to the sound
of a military drum.
Morning knows
my pale is broken
but still i try
to bisect the sunshine
for long enough
to divert attention
from long
asthmatic breaths
in the ripples
that my eyelids
once left behind
in the rain.
My childhood will
always remain
in this lagoon
but i am only here
waiting for the
feeling
to come back
in to my cold veins
lying untouched
within the bird's nest.
If only sadness
had a mantra
i could sing,
that had the possibility
of repairing
the cracks
on my forehead,
i would have never broken
this morning child,
nor have stood
on the life
of a raindrop
at night.
Gold trophy winner
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