With tied feet we run
while the woods
peel back
on their own
past the boarded homes
we played in
past crusty folds
we slept in
past the herb riddled gardens
we fed from
and the laundry machines
we checked for quarters
as we reach to clutch
and hold
and breathe with mixed intent
reaching for our hands
unclasped
unwilling
undaunted by the tide
rolling over these woods
now salted and swept
clean of silhouettes
traveling beneath these
caved walls
and rooted memories
we look down
at the smiling
corpses
caught in the thickets
of our dreams,
content to mingle
and haunt
and moan.

– Rob Azevedo