They whispered behind the closed door. Some say they were angels some say demons. Because of the way they floated on clouds. They eventually shape shifted from dirt, from the filth, mouth full of lies, sting of the bird pepper and 1000 gutted perch. Transformed first into a Phoenix, then he into the mountain, her the sea. Often times they can be heard not seen. He a pack of wolves. She the descending sound of the canyon wren.

poem copyright © 2015 Jolaoso Pretty Thunder. 
All Rights Reserved.

Previously published in Red Earth Productions & Cultural Work’s Community of Writers’ Café