One fist tangled firm on
the lead of these reigns, 
this horse is bred in dark
cynicism and he tends to
veer into uncharted terrain. 

Sometimes the trees come
alive and drag sharpened
fingernails across my arm
or douse crimson of the 
virgin on lost trails forlorn. 

Though I tend to stick along
for the journey of nooses,
the rotten fruit often falls 
until my knuckles loosen. 

I’ve really nothing to fear.
As my path is unclear 
and most will steer
clear because I am

– B. 


The way in which the 
dampened leaves 
stick to the bottom 
of my boot,
Reminds me of 
cadavers in the 

The way in which the
children hide away 
behind clever disguise,
Reminds me of 
the reality in all

The way in which the
breeze crisps in a whip
of fury against my back,
Reminds me of 
the loss of my

– B.