I long for the day when
the forest rooted in my gut
blooms once more;
when it can make something young
and beautiful
of all these dead leaves
Tell me,
when was your last Spring?
My birthday tells me it comes once a year
but nothing has been reborn
in at least ten
It's all rot
and rot may give life,
but only to maggots and
fear and
the shadow horrors that
lurk in abandoned parking lots
No hope grows here