Moss Magic

There’s magic in the moss,
all the old words,
history stored;
trace the portal,
fingers across feathery green,
reaching through the layers
of reality and realms
soaked up into tendriled clusters,
into pockets of lush dimensions
beneath your feet, your hands;
touch the surface, diving deeper
down into the gentle world
parting, opening
a library of thoughts and signs
once found, always found
if you care to walk the way
between elms and oaks,
through ash and book,
to the carpet of moss,
the sea of damp green waves
creeping up legs like rocks
and seeping their whispers
into your bones,
memories against skin,
and communing with your fingerprints
in the spiralling dance
of falling leaves and growing days

Language of Shards

I’m well-versed in the language
of pieces and shards,
the silken, soft fingers
of flowering cracks in windows,
and the whispered codes
of torn dresses on high towers,
trapped in the fabric
of the world’s undoing;

I’m fluent
in silently picking the shreds
out of brittle shrubs,
detangling shivers from the ground

Ask Me in Circles

Ask me in circles, in nursery rhymes and secret dance, ask me how the rivers flow, bending around reality and back into their own dreams; ask me in mountain slopes, in spiral smoke and misty hair of rainy days, following the curve of ancient spines right until the cloudy cover breaks, right in front of your door.

Burn Me

Burn me, candle,
burn me, stars;
pages now meaningless
in the grand book of skies,
but one mote in Jupiter’s storms;
we enter oblivion,
noctambulating backwards
against gravity
into futures past,
where all is burnt
and all is light.

Not the Palace

I want to write pretty words,
shining pearls of letters
on beautifully crafted pages,
just like the ones you adore,
dried flowers and sparkly ink;
but that’s not me
— I’m the void, not the palace;
I’m chaos, not your songbird.