I have pulled you out of too many car wreckages.
Now, you are alone in your twisted metal tomb.
I have raised my hands to the dark,
I dared to show my face to the gods,
they hid in shame.

But they have named it.
They point down to the clay
to whisper
only what the wind sails away with.
Murmers,
perhaps my hands can fashion
or catch
a seashell to speak their language.

I doubt that.
As your passing takes you beyond their
grasp
and into what my hands have concieved in air,
I guided your safe passage,
back to me
One day, when the wreckages become anchors,
and the heavens evolve,

We will be that star my arms reached too.








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I really like this. Especially the line where you say wreckage's become anchors..that really resonates with me.

Thanks. I like your poetry too