poetry

We rest, but still worry how To live in the mountain, How to carve the walls thick enough And climb up, inside-- stone-made steps. We got here from following our mother's torches Illuminating novellas. Old tales, probably impossible, Of industrial gods defeated Yet the earth mourns-- still metal,

A part of me still daydreams Of what could have happened to you If you kept music theory and frequented the stage, The audience of mismatched furniture and beer, Not discovered, but to just be known. You used to be so beautiful, two things, raw Not made for me but