I can’t speak it
it burns, melts
down my throat,
riddling my stomach lining.
I can’t smell the wet
wooden fences, touch
what glistens naturally,
transient and pure.
Running from the socializers,
the money makers, money believers, ignorant
of death and of the weight of love.
I can’t stand in my special place,
domed by a protective layer of faith
and the muscle tissues of maniac grace.
I want to leave this war in which
what I say has no say, where I am pinned
to the gravel, spoke
wheels of the worldly controllers
rolling over my flesh and spine. Is there
mercy? Is there anything
open? Oxygen? Validation?
Is there anyone to talk to?
I would talk but I can’t speak
or move forward from this death trap.
In my mind, confinement abounds.
Blood letting, leach getting, plastered
to every underside of skin.
When will it be gone?
Will I be gone, clear of this
riding, riding twisted garden paths.
Smile here, nod there at all the people in human clothes.
I am grey as my namesake, as a cluster of lackluster trees.
There is nowhere for me, nothing
I can understand.