it was the echoing voices of the old ones,
through thick steal forests and overscorched earth.
always just out of reach.
a murder of crows judged my every footstep.

my bones were frozen.
penniless and entirely out of breath,
i washed my beautiful hands in the black market dog water trough.

but through it all, the real stick in my spokes was the torment of my dreams.
i fought off sleep with both fists and sometimes fire.

with little more than a blow gun that i made from an exhausted pen,
i shot the stars out of the sky.
when each one fell, sparkling to the ground,
i made wishes that never came true.

apparitions of angels with angry eyes appeared at each new moon.
my own ghost began whispering
and the trees died if i tried climbing.
the decision was made for me...to begin interpreting real life
just as i would a nightmare.