it is an electrical storm
         writ
in the misshapen globe
above your shoulders
    suspended
in blood and flesh.

it is a tree, self-uprooted
        hung now, roots high
only
        one lonely bloody
branch scraping
                         ground
caught in a world
not of its making.

it is the silent whisper
that haunts the moment before awake.

we are the beasts,
half-stupid
stumbling through sleeping 
dreams of life and death.

we are all beasts,  captured
faces frozen in ice,
the past suspended before us,
the future thawing 
always,

warm 

behind our heads;