Crypt

my skin has been empty

for years, mummified,

blood circles the wilderness

of my past, wandering

beneath the shade cast

by forests of fear.

it's autumn and the ground

is littered in memories

fluttered down to dirt.

I can not find the path

lying barren beneath the rubble.

but death never built

a compass so I could

find my way home,

so I stay warm by friction,

with a pulse powered

by attempts to escape,

I wonder if I can

worm my way past the sky

into place without

the shackles of gravity,

pulling me to the dust.

I can't shrink enough

to erase the handles,

or grow strong enough to resist.

this is why waiting

hides behind its name.