Through the mesa's of stone
he comes to me,
his eyes only half there
his vacance making my skin dance
and sometimes, he is so close
when the blue antlers
seem to shimmer in the background,
on some nights
I cannot take that final step
and I cannot find out why
something stands like restless armies
between me
and the answers I seek to find
what will return me
from the undead
what might make me
once again, alive.
And the scarlet ochre
of chance
stains my skin
for it is the one thing
I need,
the blood that runs through
the only thing I want . . .
And he is there,
somehow strange
yet a little familiar,
scattering his joy
about my space
and wondering to himself
if I will follow;
while I wait, the whole time,
for him to come searching
and find me.