tilted dreams
I wash my hands
of it ridding the stains
what poetry redeems

these war-pocked millennium lands
I ensconce audio whistles of the trains
rolling through the prairies in a drought
absent of rains crumbling foundations of earth
of what barely stands of prolonged dearth

tree bark
the only thing
that is left tangible
I take a feel of the texture
of eternity oh these stains and the mark
sanity set in gemstones the ancients called a ring

my moon bequeaths solitude
spread thighs open to foolery
'twas told to me to heal with nature's jewelry
I took a broken chain and fused the links rode
the mare through the church hood took the wood
carved the pew initialed the pulpit left a jade toad

in sickness it pains
even the messengers to comment
why souls devalue bond and chastise good
they scold me with their stains
I cauterize with branding iron
and drink the froth of ferment
I wash my hands of it

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, Celebrity firebrand lesbian novelist