untitled 12 by Margaret Stacy

death is a dream 

in which I confront my comforts 

the furthest extent 

of the human conscience 

stays cautious when 

looking direct in eyes 

I am the soil the 

creek threatens to take back 

the asphalt paved by 

tires on tires 

I’m tired 

of feeling the ache 

in my fingerbones 

they rattle between 

my muscles 

bugs flailing in a child’s fist 

eternally breaking my wings 

I’m tired 

of tires on tires 

paving my soul to silence 

I am the creek the soil 

threatens to bury 

eyes looking to mine 

cautious to meet their end 

my eyes confess the extent 

of a human’s conscience 

death is a comfort 

I confront in my dreams