August 7 by The Running Son
words of ǻngels
Fear not, you say,
and the shaking finally subsides,
the riptides pull away
and you are there, in the light.
Everything is you then;
bright red behind pinched eyelids.
It’s ok, you said,
And I drained, a breath complete–
a high longing passing
through all remaining places for air to be,
hide and go stale, or become
the juice of ailing men breathing in
deep red fears of gods who judge tears.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.