scream:

I live in every moment, every link.

Run your hands across the chain.

Cold steel, the past was a home.

The cicada still scream there.

Like they did when I was young.

The trees were alive with madness.

They spoke to me in my language.

Bitterness and scorn.

Walking with nails in your heels.

My skin burned in recognition.

Wandering the polluted delta.

Eyes the color of autumn leaves.

It was possible to fade,

slowly falling away.

Grain

by

grain.

To join the gravel slick with rot.

Home is where I lie my head.

Even in this withering light.

As the rustling wind beckons new

screams as thousands of grotesqueries

make the sky their home.

Shrieking on every new current.

Bearing horror on their wings.