The sound of the wind rustling the crusty leaves that bury me.
They smell so sweet, decomposing in the spring;
Like memories wafted to my brain and its stem.
Plant this seed in deep, between the vertebrae of my spine
And I’ll curl like a fetus, trying to find a heart to listen (to.)
The months pass in nines. I’m still trying to find a way out this womb.
Drying veins align, a path for these rivers to follow you.
I decay before I bloom, trace my pain through my roots.

-SLuR