ashen lips
bloody handprints
broken nails
from trying to claw
into the light

salt encrusted
memories
of your spore
in the afternoon sun
trailing softly

so many
would be poets
follow
after the song
of the words

unknowing
if it is
fame or love
they seek
with outstretched hands

likely
it will be neither
just bloody trails
retreating
into the night

dragging corpses
across
the shattered glass
of dreams
of those who walk before