Lost by H. Russell Smith

All is lost to me
Or rather, lost on me.
Maples recoil from violence 
Of Moon; cold, harsh
Now bathed in silent orange blood

Teeming with silvered sweat
I see mornings when
Eagle thrice appeared
Two times at my feet, once high above
His message a subtle admonition
To watch my feet; vipers are near.

In the red marshes of sunrise
I align myself with Wolf 
I am weary.  I am tired.
Settling down upon a rock
I wait for warmth 
To soak into my bones


H. Russell Smith, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, lives in the Joplin, MO area. He is an avid Ham Radio Operator and bumbling supervillain.