Poison Fry

the half-life of the stove you did not turn on
the firewood you've collected for years
from the jungle of your soul has been consumed

the barren forests screamed, your soul screamed
calling for springs, puddles of words
the only tears
I know you are now a piece of old land
left by the cultivators
my hands trembling open the sheets of books
history that is longing to write your name

like the spirits of the ancestors
I saw you trapped
in the history of millions of years
I was caught in a hole
the history you created

the stove is longing you turn it on
just burn a bunch of poetry, your remaining self
so the soul is not wasteful fossil
Firewood has become charcoal
we need warmth, my beloved
life is warmth
which not everyone can feel

it's time I miss the bellowing of virgin wind
when the forest dunes are disturbed
but the echo of death floating in the furnace
that you did not turn it on
because hungry because thirst
hands stuck out from inside the stove
strangle your breathing roots
suck, lick your little hills
which is barren for many years
lost his love tears