southern cross
The forest shrouds my view of the
deep night sky except for a patch
of blue. four stars hang in the sky;
the shadow of a crucifix. earth
clings to my hair and hands
sleep flits upon my eyelids.
the moon darts in and out
of the cover of foliage. bathed in silver
waves I see my pale white skin
stained and decaying, interwoven
with the fabric of white worms
who await my ascension.
This is not the temple
of kings, these burial grounds not
for noble men. an open tomb lies, its
door ajar, awaiting the return
of inhabitants
to absorb the echoes within.
trees wave their arms
in air and sing softly,
much the way the wind would,
summoning the lost and those
struck by wanderlust to return
and spend tonight beneath watchful eyes.
their hair, blown in the breeze
is long and snarled, voices
enchanting, yet visages are
void of features aside from the
suggestion of a mouth
with the insinuation of a smile.
no one returns and
I linger, alone, lying in the
clingy moss, layers deep,
awaiting your arrival and
quiet violation
(Your face hangs suspended from the southern cross.)
