///

All's gone blunt
in a looped striking tone.
Only the winded and carried
listen to the static
of my half-life story.

"Armed force of the
prickly pear"

You might eat during the right month
or bleed out during the wrong.
In a wood,
not a wood.  But a place with
thin leaved trees,
aiming to survive.
Holding onto water,
listening low to the ground.
Friendly with the snakes and
nasty not-pigs.
All is my silent story,
folded into a letter.
Vaulted under a stranger's best intentions.