A  lead glass sieve. I can’t put my heart into a poem. Emptiness is not an emotion.

Standing alone in the shadow of the house, I wait while he plays, remembering to breath.

The air tonight smells with the bitter sweetness of decaying earth…warm.  Pensive wetness clings to the curling vapors, on the coat tails of rogue angels, drifting out into a darkness that beckons lost souls. Threadbare branches cut a deep shadow against a color-drained sky.

If I make it over that vine covered fence I could go on forever. Says the scarecrow, “go back to where you came from”.  And I’ll keep walking. Faded pieces of me dropping like stale breadcrumbs among the rotting apples.  If the Earth is round, I’ll follow the path you’ve laid, in cracked ruby slippers, down the verdigris brick road. Walk, until I’ve walked back to you.

All living creatures die alone. I don’t want to die alone.