Wild Fire.

A street sign stood crooked with its
face an arrow pointing straight,

but I didn't want to move ahead yet.

It was as if these woods were enchanted,
a devious perfume slinking over property
of incognito men and women,
like aboriginals who became molded
into tree trunks, their brows carved onto
bark until every speck of dust
was spotted. This became their
survival.

When I drifted through this unsigned
area, I realized I did not have footprints
that last; they were soaked up from
the hot soil, coal trying to brand me,
a spring fever I'm becoming
immune to.

Are these simply confused illusions?

It's been fifteen days since I've seen
the oxidized port that kept my canoe
at bay-
still, the fogginess encompasses my
itchy eyes and all I am shown is copper
waves of self-rejection

as I utter again and again,
my mind is here, my mind is here.

-
And the embers remained like
old carcasses of pythons,

curling away at the touch
of man...

"thou shall not kill".

-
Written 7/29/13 @ 12:42 PM

Baby Rainbow's challenge from these random prompts:

Thou shall not kill
waves of self rejection
survival
spring fever
confused illusions