circling

you are weak.

you are weak.
you are weaker

weaker than brittle frozen flowers of October.
you are a child.
you are an infant. a kitten. a rat fetus.
crying, clawing, shivering.
the smallest heart barely shifting blood tinged with dirty oxygen
and knowledge of the crushing and the death that shall envelop you.

you. you are weak.
you are weaker than mountains. rivers. silences.
sinking, flailing, screaming.
the smallest veins in your eyes
i see the blood leaving them
watching you falling. collapsing.
under the weight and the sight and the sound.
mountains, rivers, oceans. a child slowly floating above the ground limbs hanging
the pull of the earth and of the sun;
a child, weak. i see the blood dripping from it.
from you.

inches above the flowers, moving,
slow across this field. cawing. shrieking. bleating.
i watch your blood dripping
it is a trail across the frosted grasses.
i watch in silence. the veins in my eyes contracting.
there is cawing.
circling.

the pull of the earth and the sun and the moon.
the galaxy in the distance pauses. resumes.
soft and wet, born again, still, from her womb.
she looks up, there is cawing, there is pulling.
she sinks her teeth into you.

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