The Starry Horse

 The horse came out of a wound in the sky 

Stitched from extinguished stars 

And the breath of things unnamed 

It did not bow its head 

It regarded me as if I were an apparition 

When I touched its neck my fingers passed through frost and fire 

And the desert opened like a eye that does not close 

Peyote dreams 

Green lightning bleeding into veins of night 

Mountains rising and falling like sleeping beasts 

Every grain of sand whispered a tally of bones it had swallowed 

Cigarette smoke drifted beside me 

Though there was no hand holding it 

It unspooled in thin deliberate spirals 

Like a sermon spoken by a mouth without a face 

A dive bar in the horizon 

Neon buzzed like trapped insects 

A jukebox coughing up dusty confessions 

Whiskey staining the wood with amber halos 

Men bent over their glasses like penitents 

Drinking to forget the shapes of their own shadows 

The starry horse trodding without leaving prints 

Each step erasing a memory 

Western winds moving low to the ground 

A hush falling behind it 

As if secrets were swept away with it 

Never to be found out 

Desert witches stitching curses into the hems of the night 

Their hair waving as if underwater 

Counting my breaths as offerings to gods unseen 

One witch lifting a bone-white hand 

Constellations shuddering 

I felt something being taken from me 

The softer version of my heart 

The sky leaned closer 

The moon thinned to a shiver 

I followed it the way a moth follows heat 

Knowing the cost of light where darkness reins 

Thunder rolled somewhere beneath the earth 

In tune with the starry horse’s steps

The desert did not forgive 

It did not explain 

It only witnessed as I rode deeper into its flowering blackness 

And still I held to that desperate promise 

Love as necessary as rain 

As ruthless as drought 

Gathering in unseen clouds 

Heavy with either salvation 

Or ruin. 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Desert Never Forgets

Image
  At the crossroads where the desert splits itself like a wound, I sat.  I found a dive bar flickering under  neon bones of red and blue , a last-chance lantern for the lost. Inside,  country music bled slow from a cracked jukebox, steel guitar crying like a ghost that still remembered my name. Cigarette smoke curled into grey serpents above the bar, hissing secrets only the midnight and the damned could decipher. I drank  whiskey-bent lies straight from the bottle— truth tasted too clean for a night like this. The bartender’s eyes were moons of their own, half-lit, half-shadowed, seeing more than he ever dared speak aloud. Outside, the  full moon  hung heavy, round as an omen, bright as a spell, pulling at the sand, the blood, at every crossroads choice I’d buried under years of wandering. A gust rose from the west— warm, wicked, whispering— and I felt the desert stir, a witch’s hand brushing my spine , reminding me that magic lives in moments like th...
Read more

A Farewell Spell for Marfa

Image
  A Farewell Spell for Marfa There’s a certain kind of dusk that only belongs to Marfa—the kind where the light bleeds slow, like a wound refusing to close. Dust rises from the road in amber halos, and the air hums with that strange, invisible electricity that’s neither joy nor sorrow, but something in between. Out here, endings don’t announce themselves; they just drift in on the wind, quiet as tumbleweed shadows. The desert feels hollow tonight. The motel signs buzz faintly, the horizon wears its bruise of burnt pink and violet, and the ghosts of all my former selves wander the edges of town, whispering promises they couldn’t keep. Even the wind sounds different—less like a song, more like a sigh. Marfa was once a kind of spell for me. The wide, merciless sky taught me surrender. The desert dust buried my noise, my need to belong. There were nights when I swore I could feel the old witches stirring under the mesquite—old souls who taught me that solitude is its own kind of prayer...
Read more

Cursed & Cured

Image
  Cursed & Cured Out in the desert where the witches dwell, I found my name carved in a drought-bleached bone— a curse whispered under a neon sign flickering like a dying prayer above a dead-end bar. Whiskey burned its truth into my tongue, country music bleeding from the jukebox like a wound that never learned to heal. Unrequited love sat beside me, boot heels kicked up, acting like he owned the night. Ghosts drifted between the cacti, soft as the sigh of a past life; they knew my story, how I’d worn my boots thin chasing someone who couldn’t turn toward me no matter how bright I burned. But the witches circled back at dawn, their shawls catching the bourbon-colored light, their voices a low rattle of mercy. They crushed mesquite leaves, mixed them with dust and moonwater, and painted a sigil on my chest— half curse, half cure, all truth. When the spell settled into my ribs, I felt the desert’s pulse replace my own. It didn’t promise love, only clarity. Only survival. Only the...
Read more