The nature of things come undone as a
twine upon a twirling spool grant last
bits of netherworldly hope. She sings
and the flowers dance in the wind
that hence becomes a silent aura of
restitutive air. The sound resonates
and clings like a starfish to its prey--
it finds sweetness in the terror that
is cloaked under the guise
of shadow. The roots of the trees
descend and ascend creating a maze
in the house of the past. The
embrace carries the world left in
fear to what it has done to cope with
the light that has left its pitied brow.
The filth exceeds the knees and the ice
blurs what sight and vision is left. The
sands becomes greedy slush and the
branches grow leaves of gold and silver.
For the sun has gone and the moon exceeds
above its own sense of sorrow. The stems
of the chrysanthemums are left hollow
as she sings and the flowers
dance in the crisp winter breeze.