these words are alive

every thing is light
with dark ness
threaded
through:

a liquid gallop,
a brightening of bees,
a lullaby brushing through hair,
a slow-motion shape shifting of bottles in trees.

know your own
loch ness—
its flywheel,
its dread loop;

let it take you down on
your knees into the black-
est blue,
let it turn you,

just for a time,
just for a trip:
to traverse those
shadow field cliffs.

keep feeding it,
that deep flip in the chest,
that steep heart dip between
the legs.

—then— wrest your
self free from
its enchantment, its
encaustic grip.

drop that shit
and run
for the hills,
run for your life.

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