Stalking, #75

Low in the valley,
in the recessed
footholds of my mind
seeds germinating,
thin hairs poking out.

Know I am separate
skin split by the air
unfolding at lagged
speeds, the snails pace
begins to drain me.

Amanda admits
to me that long hair,
long but not shaggy,
and a pretty face,
that’s how I should be.

Huh, what? You’re the girl
whose hand wallops me
strongly when my eyes
land on a body
that’s only half dressed.

These thoughts grow early
as the sapling tree
first gawks at the sky,
presses past debris
to sadness and stress.

Trees will remind me,
as will each long hair
bursting through soil,
cresting at daylight’s
dew, of Amanda.

It was hair, you see,
long flowing and fair,
light skin that spoiled
every other site
below and above.

Hit me again. I’m
wrong for wandering.
Fight me and my urge.
Need me one last time.
Know that I miss you.

This stalk I will climb,
not now while it clings
to the ground. But surge
it will, by my time,
to see that long view,

Miss you from afar,
caught out upon limbs
through your leaving. Just
admit it, that time,
you know it will come,

When the evening star
rises, tells it’s grim
tale of warped lust,
cancer that’s climbing
in the east. Succumb

again wiry girl,
hissing snake, blonde
vale underneath
a blur of kisses
beginning in earth.

The young seed unfurls
one wing, hears the pond
and wind, bears its teeth
to push. It misses
seasons before birth,

unconfused and just
begun, kept safe, warm,
bland and sleeping. Hair
drew me up and hair
shunned me. I’m a tree

now, old and rusty,
friend to sun and storms,
my stalks shaped and flared
by the rains, the fare
sun that always leaves.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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