Cold, ruthless hearted

Poem #96

Once I had a dream, gentle and simple,  
and I walked toward it with a wolf’s gait;  
dense as a forest when the leaf of trial fell —  
I know it flew away like the earth’s own blood.

Sweat rolls across my brow and body  
as I, unbroken, move at a steady trot,  
with a tingling in my mouth and a whistling phrase:  
“My deed reflects the brutal mirror of wounds.”

And I know my blade is divine and sharp,  
meant to know the hidden labor of darkness —  
oh, dark as a liver  
eaten by a crow,  
blazing like fire, burning,

melting all that dares to bloom,  
leaving behind a hollow of brown  
and the yellow of dead grass;  
like Job, undone by injustice,

mourning like a wound — a stone driven deep,  
skin torn at night by a goat’s hoof.

At the end I watch the waves crawl on,  
far too long, though I could have  
rooted my feet in worn-down traces,

summoning tears, soothing scars,  
the breath of dust —  
leaving a letter carved into bark for those to come

“This deed shattered the brutal mirror with a fist.”