Snowfall on an Anchorage Graveyard
There’s no birds singing in theses trees. There’s no secret poem written among the leaves, just a cold, dark forest that’s been growing, growing up inside me. There’s no sign of shelter in her voice. There’s no warm refuge from this raining noise, that’s falling down, falling all around me. Outside my window, of this lonely hotel room, snow as cold as the stares of the dead it’s falling onto and the secret they keep buried with them, long after they’ve expired. If you find yourself above the ground, you better find yourself a fire. There’s no flowers growing beneath these ribs. There’s no blooming whites, no bleeding reds, just a single rose – locked up and sealed and waiting for you. There’s no great hero in these shoes. There’s no angel wings, no empty tombs, just a crippled, broken man whose been leaning upon you. So I sink the things I’m to scared to say, and I sing the things I’m to scared to think like how it wasn’t some girl who up in the night walked away from me. It was the holy ghost, the fire I’d found floating up away from me. So out into the void I sing to you now, “Come back, come back to me, please.” In the morning the sun lays down to rest upon my cheek. Outside I see a bird on a branch open its mouth to speak, and two people pressed together like palms sending up a prayer to heaven and time goes on, in its mercy forgetting us.
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