This kiss,
this sun on skin,
breaking leaves give way to heavy steps.
This path a mirrored dream,
These brambles rip, tear – kiss.
The broken skin, sky ripping.
Shouting. Crackling.
Burning.
My mind full of an echoing shout:
your words a scornful lecture, fading.
The distant voices. The chorus of morning.
Writer Moe 