dead language: raine

there is no one left (but the dead roses and old owls)
to remember my name.
there is no one, but the wind,
to recall the weight
of my skeleton.

there is nothing left for me.
the earth crawls into my mouth,
my dry tongue cannot push it away.
tree roots claw their way
around my rib cages.
i sink. sink. sink.
forgotten.
my death buries the language
that the roses once knew.
my passing leaves no echo.
leaves no trace.
no footprint.
no scribble on stone.

there is no one left
to remember my mother’s tongue.

Cheyenne RaineComment