Poetry by Kyah Eichholz

Run

Everything felt overexposed.
The wind bit and scratched him
in his sound starved ears.
Discomforts were drowned in relief
to be free.

The moon burned his eyes,
laughed with unbridled euphoria.
A semblance of stealth broke his cracked lips,
causing them to bleed.
He was going home.



Bird Song

He woke to bird song.
After months of clanks and rattles, then
complete silence, he blinked open.
Golden light was soft,
not at all like the frozen
moon of the night before.

Birds not men woke him.
The forest floor-
                rich soil damp with dew,
                sweet decaying leaves,
                moss on his bare feet.
Every vein took in rough bark.

He no longer flits through the pitch of trees,
here in the safety of the canopy.




The House

Overgrown weeds had long since conquered,
waved like flags in their superiority.
White picket fence now sagged outward.
Wild grass.
The path barely visible, each stone an island
in the green.
One rusty hinge rocked in that same breeze.
House rotted and fallen.
Windows bared
visible the broken soul.
Forgotten, in despair.
One neglected soul lit a candle,
reminding all there was still some life.