[ .the.night.is.always.young. ]

[ .the.night.is.always.young. ]


am, free standing and small, nightstalking neverending, alone under darkened branches, staring back down, the striations etched into pericardium, thundering muscle, those lines matching the crevices on her trunk, and her skyworn thorns, match the crowns spiralling out of my foreskull, shadows pooling, at her feet, at my feet, now distanced from the lamplight cast, or inverted is the black succubus lines, reflecting future intentions, as her branches shift in the breeze.


© Bryan McLean March 29, 2010
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