The grapes haven't spoiled yet, but
will now never be tasted.
The cut flowers
still have some perplexing
life in them.
Hanging from a
tree branch, I find a message
written by a dead woman.
There's a bookmark
embedded between the
pages of a hardback, like
Excalibur lodged in
stone, and I
cannot pull it out.
It hurts to walk along
certain corridors,
past certain doors, with
no one behind them
calling to me.  
The radio is tuned to Ghost FM,
and nobody with a pulse
gets airtime.  
Digital photographs of
fading analogue memories.

Yet still small shoots persist
in breaking through this dark, cold dirt, and
inexplicably blossoming.

They trace down your cheeks...
during the loneliest of nights.
They gather between your collar bones...
through your battles and fights.

They brim in your eyes...
assuring you the glimmer of hope.
They drip off your chin...
*like a thread of droplets to help you cope.

They wet your shivering smile...
reminding you of your strength and humility.
They fall on your palms...
appreciating your sacrifices and sincerity.

They seep into your skin...
to fuel the undying love in your heart.
They feed your soul with gratitude
*until the time comes when you shall depart.

When archaeologists pull
something out of the dirt,
they call it a discovery.

I imagine them years from
now, "discovering"
skyscrapers and microwaves
and styrofoam cups. I can see
them with my broken body.

There's something different
about these bones, they say,
something heavy.

There is a message in here
somewhere. There is a riddle
that still twists my hands up.

They said there was a place
inside me where the music
had gone wrong.

I said, There is no such thing
as wrong music.

I've been at myself with a pick
axe for a long time, trying to
discover something new and
groundbreaking underneath.

*just sediment