Saddest
of all
springtime
shows
is the
display of
sculpted stone
that never
blooms
and only
grows
after the
seeds of war
are sown

I wish I could tell you all the things that make me small and cloud my vision with too much dark. I long to tear the words from my throat, to cast light onto the syllables that cause my heart to flounder.


I have cried a million tears since the day of my passing, none of which have begun to erode the stone in which my fears are set. They are chiseled too deeply into the lonely tomb that holds my sometime smile.


I wish I could tell you of all the things that make me small, I wish I could share my darkest dreaming and not fear the cloud of judgement that will settle upon your brow as it steals my breath and breaks my heart.


I can only love you and hope that it's enough.

She marches
the column
of crosses
and ticks
in line to
the foot of
the page,
a timetabled
life surrendered
to lists is
how she
gets rid
of her days.