All i see are bones.
Cramped together,
to give a substance.
A bare tree.
The bird of nocturnal fantasy
sitting on the branches.
The long sunset has spread the colour of longing.
In the roots, in that gravity,
a shiver runs through the damp body.
Another day the cracks are open,
the sacrifice blossoms
and the time becomes a matter of thoughts.
As the gazes go wild
the wind gets sharp.
What if this could work,
this forsaken land,
these skinless waves,
the lunacy,
the wait of sands.
What if in the matter of being there exists an escape,
a divergence.
There’s a smell of imprints,
floating
engaging
nurturing.
The smoke curls up to a wondering
of blues and remembrance.

……………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Alex Lanting

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