Balsamic Moon

The need to go within
a wounded mother wolf
would-be pups pawing 
from her womb

The emptiness of knowing
quiet of Earths tomb
the need to curl
the need to sleep

The dearth of light
a lack of luster
roots in the room
culling the bite

Shifting

I.
Oaken mold of trees
Blood to rotting roots 
Baying on the ridgeline
She-wolf hides her skins

Skulking peeking cautious
Takes on human form
Changes with the moon
Seeking fresher carcass

II.
Bred into the soil
And bones bereaved of love
A skeleton of winter
And icicle drips

Lofty slopes
Her lair is dug 
Where trembling saplings
Plead for sun

Darkness here
This Stygian wild
Fed from grief
And the trickling springs

III.
Weress woman
Hides her skins 
The deepest trunk
Of the eldest tree

She dons them again
On New Moon
Just reclaimed 
From balsamic

And so the cycle 
Meager existence
Mountain heart
Crevasse bound

Serpents Delve

I build things and then destroy them
There are no endings
Only a serpent spinning

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel
I can not
Will not 
Long for it
Darkness encircles me
Darkness is me

Melting into a cave of quiet
My slick limbs smeared onto walls of stone
This heart beats toward the slithering gold
That pulls and taunts me toward its luster