Figures, metallic and draped in ardor, hang
from stoic wires. There’s no
waiting ocean, no subtle abyss. Only
voices starved from becoming. I wade
through flowers, toward hyper darkness.
My own identity is filled to the brim,
slouching in the elements. Against the wind, sordid
garments press against my limbs. The green
river of troubled sleep freezes.
The day is a damaged masterpiece; mouths
grasping for warmth. The wilderness blurs
my vision; squalid and tempestuous. I am
but a chime here.
Undulating gypsum tears through life’s
facade. Fissures bloom with mourning.
My body is a tomb; familiar and well-lit.
∞
J.L Moultrie is a 30 year old poet based in Detroit, Michigan. He fell in love with reading and writing poetry after encountering Hart Crane, Rainer Maria Rilke and others. His work appears or is forthcoming in 𝘙𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴, 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸, 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘴, 𝘋𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘑𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 and elsewhere. He is a dog and cat dad and holds an Associate of Arts degree from Wayne County Community College.
