Poetry

I walk through the slush 
of moral grief. 
Here lies my mortal poem. 
 
A prodigal menace. 
You will not breathe in, the 
golden grass, once more. 
Lingering beside the past, the 
savage today. I pick up 
the silence of the tomb. 
 
Lateral conjugation. You 
come from the otherside to 
breach the wall, bear the 
pluralism- 
 
and become none. The under- 
belly, the yellow blood? 
Will you hold my hand 
to cross the meaning?