Smiling is not the mark of happy wonders,
not when for each smile I had to pay.
So, with every suckled failure,
I throw these withered buds away.
Grab the greyish-lilac vase,
baptise it anew
and swear on novel springs,
handing over plastic flowers to my freshly chosen king.
This year they will surely bloom, in lavish dusty greys!
for as long as you can breathe,
and I can sing,
I’ve forbidden their decay
Snow has fallen on our tracks,
that have melted into dust.
Bloody shoes and dried up rivers,
sounds of salty, sanded rust.
When every tree is silent, we’ll have lost most of our tunes.
When the only flowing songs, are the crying wails of dunes.
I’d have clasped your hands by now,
calling you my pitied friend
Drying tears of my causation,
so I can make for ancient crimes amends.
Amen!
I shout, for no other heard your question.
Praise
my monopole of answers, which I wear like fast-sewn fashion.
This crimson velvet cloth has long tangled on scaffolding,
revealing naked, skinny scripts and the vacuum were holding.
I draw small, oval circles on the corners of your blades.
Predictions with cracked passion of this
inane, perpetuated
play.
