Moving Through by Francis Piché

The earth moves
with muscle made of molten stone.
Birthmarked by ancestor graffiti,
I step off at the edge of fear
ride this single ticket, with no return.

In the company of light
everything comes with its own shadow.
Each day stencils my mind
with the weight of memory –
neuro-feedback in time warp.

How I perceive what I receive
signals words, tongue`s need,
to lift and turn each page,
like autumn collects leaves
birthed in spring.

I call across the valley
for a little warmth
told in primary colours:
the sound of an eyelid’s blink
shatters the silence.


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