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nementiaSomedays, he is nothing.
He is the empty ribcage of a deer's carcass,
five years after its muscle has rotted away.
He is a broken windowpane, remnants of glass
slicing the flesh of anyone who tries to reach inside.
He is a dusted-over spiderweb.
But somedays, he is whole.
He is the infinite swell of the sea's waves,
pounding on the sands of his earth.
He is a dancer's breath,
gasping and flying and rhythmic.
He is color itself,
Making his way into every gaze
and every painting.
He is the empty ribcage of a deer's carcass,
five years after its muscle has rotted away.
He is a broken windowpane, remnants of glass
slicing the flesh of anyone who tries to reach inside.
He is a dusted-over spiderweb.
But somedays, he is whole.
He is the infinite swell of the sea's waves,
pounding on the sands of his earth.
He is a dancer's breath,
gasping and flying and rhythmic.
He is color itself,
Making his way into every gaze
and every painting.
