Words

My words fall out 
like thousand ants 
spilling from an anthill. 
A volcano
erupting from the decayed trunk; 
soldiers eating upon
the dead branch
hoping to make 
the tree
alive.


I hold the full moon
in my cup.
It completes a cycle
when i pour the water
on my knees.
The scars don't blurr;
the half moon makes it darker
like a shovel
deepening
the 
grave.


Shadows dance
on white paper
like toothpicks
scattered
in
darkness.
My speech
curdles like milk;
a spider gets trapped
in its own web.
My veins burst forth 
forming words,
but you 
only see 
question 
marks.