Grieve in the pines and let their
abundance signal a spring
Our ghosts we fabricate with ribbons
to bleed on the naked floor.
A conscientious ritual formed by
generations of suffering flow out of wounds
too discreet to divulge
but in that vain language of metaphor. It is only
I will, I will and I will
and that worth brings islands of rational
hallucinations. The epitome of a resigned life
speaks in ordered tones.
Tell me a story in the meadow we visited
in a yourh that only occurred
as we imagined. I will hold to it
as a sacred
The hyacinth blooms in the
radience of a
silver dawn. It is now
but again to be.