ash wood

i am often

no more

but in between

i spit life

like a tree born from blood

which will learn to claw into the sky

for hungry breathless mouthfuls of growth

that take away space

with shadows that kill blindly

and once

old and forgotten

by love’s initials

will want to be cut down

though most of me is dry

with blood

no more

*

odd that i believe

i still have a good heart

even as i

ruined yours bad

*

i suppose

after it all

what will stay

with me like a

bad burn

or perhaps a good one

a fire

spent reigniting the dying horizon

against the coming night

is that

you left

and i remain cold

with could

and the you found in

the difference of suppositions