What I'm made of

Ruby bloody guts
caught in a white noise
solid cage
seashell's rumor within the veins
a piece of chalk on the forefinger
Who knows best?
Only the river can know for sure
what it takes on its trip to the sea.
Remnants of anger
and fear and lust
blossom in small birds
around the water
to sing bridges to life, to joy
to deeper roots of silence
where abyssal anemones
glow drawing inner maps
of mausoleums
and memorials of catastrophes
turn into dust gleams.