Something About Swordsmanship-Native

Eleven; folders filled with paper, green will flood. Thirteen; coal black nights with laughter, trusting tounges. Fifteen; cement ponds and car rides, pathes have crossed. Nineteen; boxes filled with IDs, green is lost. I’ve been, exchanging, thoughts with, a new wind. (this is, growing. this is, changing) This basement confides my end of the rope. Wave at the cancer, it’s hiding in gray smoke. The red glass spills, and brings forth the ghost. The gold on this bracelet’s as true as its host. (the ink on this hand’s as true as its host. We’re planted, we form together and bloom. It’s green lives, with shades of blue, resign. We grow up, and then we change, and then we’ll explain, and then we’ll change, we die. Lakes gone dry, basements filled. Pathes gone dark, car rides hault. Carve the hole, place the box, lids down.