Soil

I list my secrets and blood 
weeps from the words.
Red Hand.
The North’s hatreds scattered us
and we wandered lost 
and died in foreign lands 
until I stand alone
back home again.

Appalled I pull away
no local I cradle
dusty ganglion
broken nerve ends
phantom limbs of hot or icy tears
I cannot tell, it is the same…

Why would I try to write them back?
To make amends?
They are gone.  All of time gone too…

The light of yesterday
its rage pain fear
love, even, laughter sometimes
extinguished, it is black
the past, it grinds my face
into this moment.
I have no time machine.