motion less

motion less
like movement
than
waves of crumbling
seas. this heart
mismatched
in its tattered wardrobe.
I don’t speak
those rosy thoughts.
only watch
petals shorn
with winter.
that you I
cannot speech
with unthought
reasons.
as of late.
we come and go
and I already
disappeared
from there,
wherever
you stand.

but with what
standard
is the future measured?
yesterday
didn’t happen
though
it bears my scar.
that
confused heap of fallen
sand.

every day I am
less.
sure of this.
certainly
more like a fatal acceptance.
warped reflection. yet
kindling a distant fire
in the bones of ashen
echoes. remembering
all that death
I am
brought back here
to this blood-
worn sea. tangled
rooted silent
driftwood, I pitch shelter
over those grave
yards I exhumed. to dance
with random bones. and talking
marrow til the sun come up.