Winter leaking into our phosphate spines Fingers curled and clawing at sun baked whispers behind our lips Trying to convey what silence tastes like on parched lungs Misfortune snapping at our humming bird fingertips The lost do not wish to be found.
Ash winters and droughted lands filled with roaming souls faith all gone, tonged twisted or mute words never to describe nightmares of waking and sleeping yet find comfort in the company of another even if its for a restful minute.
faded the bodies may be, souls as empty as air and never as white as snow, yet sooner lesson to the tongs of bone then those from whispered lips and forked tongs, and treasure every touch no matter how fleeting.
Yet its those hands that shall pulls us from the water into a boat as the ship sinks, Those words that will ask if your ok and not hurt, Those palpitations that shall fill the heart with love for when there is no rescuer you can smile and know you had a good run (or float ☻.
I suppose human kindness while on the brink of extinction exists in small crevices, so wrapped up in oneself and the switchblade attitudes around us cause kindness to seem somewhat artificial and untrustworthy.