Shigé Clark Writing



Though He Slay Me

The hackberry chars, but will not burn.
It turns its back, defiant to the fire.
It won’t be lost to ember and to ash,
it lasts beyond the pyre.
It will be itself, and nothing less –
if greyed and shriveled from its form.
It says that living wood is best
and will not be reborn.

The birch erupts to instant flame
and fumes – it burns a golden bright
and is consumed. It flings itself
in flakes against the night
and breathes full to its core. The pain
of crumbling is barely more
than life, and for
all its ash and ember, it is nothing less
than light.

the truth of stars

the truth of stars



Burn the World

A frozen field of broken glass
That makes up crystal flowers
And shooting sprouts of poison grass
That grow in acid showers
A cold and cracking ashen sky
Over a salt-seared ocean
That fills as all the children cry
Of empty, dead emotion
A creeping chill sweeps through the trees
And leaves their fingers reaching
They’re wishing for a pair of knees
To bend beneath the screeching
The lightning strikes, and sets ablaze
The fields, burns through the ground
The tears, the fears, the twisted maze…
It burns the whole world down.

– s. Clark

Blog at

Up ↑