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literature

echolalia, live on. forever, forever. (#29)

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it's easiest to displace
and display, to misuse,
uncork, disregard
and mute with hands.

we used them
to end a war
we didn't know
was waged.

but in the wrinkles of my palms,
i spread the ant feet
of your words into the mountain
of my hands until they are but wisps
at the tips
of my fingers.

your hands
were your greatest quality.

and they still are.

i'd much rather
end the story on that note,
for it is a proper burial
to know the soil
kisses your weary knuckles.
An urn of once was: Of what made us and destroyed us.

Farewell, my friend. 

Day 29

:iconnapowrimo::iconbeautyinrawhumanity:
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