Rising From The Swamp

Our roots go deep and sip on forgotten things,
and we may never fly again
with all these holes punched through our wings.
When I saw the pictures of you,
the ones they shouldn’t have kept,
I felt the hard rains falling then,
felt fear before I leapt.
It couldn’t be a trick of memory,
Too many times I’ve mapped those eyes,
Tried to pack it all into my chest,
but the hard rain seeps into the earth and,
like a Louisiana flood,
makes the buried bones rise.

Leave a Reply