Youngblood

There along the empty patch of grass,

where the wind flexed its muscle

and the field bowed deep and loyal,

was the ghost of you.

young, enamored, dangerous,

wicking words like dipped feathers

in freshly spilt blood

along parchment of pale skin

Drawing passion and calamity

amongst tethered and wistful hearts,

living precariously, intentioned,

defying the old who see youth wasted.

In my scarcity of words, despondently,

I now feel the weight of years,

blood flowing as a child sneaking,

quiet and disallowed.

I spy the ghost in that memory,

coursing up the coastline

carrying my youth to my back

breathing deep the world.