File the knives like the high reef of the human dawn, I can hear you breathing inside of me, awakening deeper source. Voices singing and slashing tones trailing and arousing the night sky as I sit here under the dust of green stars --stars that trample the mineral serpent that was once flung to earth. I'm struck by feathers of flight and fire burns on the gold and within it. White turquoise upon my skin called illusion. The spell has been broken and a soft rose carved stone levitates. Above. Below. And I dive and I dive and I dive into the silver waves through this direction I once called time. Water-bearer of Andean tears -- I come to speak through your dead mouth.
Words © Wendy Rose Watson