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Words don’t just mirror,
they fist a flower victorious
through deep cave apertures,
suddenly ripened by
a lonely sin,
nourished continually with a mother’s blood
and stars birthed formed from a son’s
far too predictable foolishness.
A man, long silenced by a snake’s
unblinking stare,
hits his head repeatedly against a wall
until blood traces the line of each
one of his years.
He dips his blood wormed finger
into the black Lancashire dirt;
these days, there are always screams
from his parents’ bedroom.
A return, retreats into an absence.
Some homecomings are enforced
and regretted before they start.
A sky leaks drop by drop.
Morning hearts, etched in cold
sing fire into the keen loneliness
of a long dreaded hour.
