Pine trees don’t grow here but winter blooms do,
their vibrant crimson in snowfields a shock;
like a path of bloody feet leading to
a rotting deer carcass at Baptism Rock.
In hearts of ghostland the roses still ache,
cleaved from their birthright by gravel and stone;
frozen in time, like Europa in space,
the Earth waits for pardon while dustfields moan.
Here the sun rises only to flicker
dim light on the dirtworms, splitting apart;
this graveyard of breath comes in a whisper
to greet me, baptize me, haunt me at dark.
The sanctified lie here to rot away,
the unholy breathe, or maybe they pray.
