lyssa (in four parts)

   PART 1: MUD   
light is strange,
here, surrounded.
I was told a tale
of a boy shrouded
in daylight, tiny
and glowing, like
alexandrian fires

he was told tales
of those like him
scolded: "why are
you in the dark?"
those rooms never
felt right, open,
public, light all
around. light can
shroud as can the
dark, hiding what
glows softly in a
starry, sparkling
child of the dark

we've heard tales
of women who rose
past the powerful
light. they burnt
blood and offered
their hearts in a
dancing night for
the wind and wood
yet they knew the
daylight is nigh.
in light the wood
will freeze while
their chests turn
to wailing stones

it is pitch black
confined in these
new rooms you put
me in.           

   PART 2: OAK   
I'm choking here,
in car air and 18
hours. I have not
seen you since we
left. see what we
did? the woods we
passed are crying

the night arrived
exactly twice, as
we leave her cold
for a third time;
the loneliness is
dangerous. spaces
are what inhabits
their reaches: my
home has the four
and the cars have
the light-walkers

I was left within
a campsite when I
left. me, in blue
and tied-up hair,
and another, lost
within my mind. I
think I left that
girl in the cedar
chest of an other
dark, biding time

cold is different
here; the dark is
holding me like I
hold the taste of
dill salad within
my throat.       

   PART 3: ASH   
lyssa is insanity

alyssa's rational
when I see her in
longer hair, with
desires inscribed
on green pills of
an oh-so-detested
but promised hope

I almost cried in
the room of yours
while sitting and
staring at her. I
think it's insane
to be here again,
stuck in the same
musings, like I'm
still that boy in
the glowing light

as if that object
of my longing can
never be mundane:
just the magic of
semio-meaning and
the workings of a
sinful phrase.   

I want so much to
be a girl.       

   PART 4: ROT   
most of all      

I am trapped by a
growing burden of
growing hair with
a matchstick mind

when I inhabit my
eyes, I know it's
not me who formed
these words in an
ancient dark. I'm
on fire & I'm yet
gone. ephemeral &
nonsensical and a
bee caught out in
its pooling tears

screaming is nice
to do in your own
head or at camp's
permanant fire. I
sit around back &
we sit concentric
like honeycombs  

dressed in a blue
patterened dress,
encased in vines,

but the writer is
still shrouded in