Through the trials our tongues are tied
to trying times; so many unsaid lines
underneath the rising tides, so many unsaid lies.

No pit burrows behind my grin,
no unlocked chains to rid this graveled ditch.

A picture of a boy, bloodied tree exclamation mark on his chest,
plants the seed for an aesthetic axe.

A glass windowed silhouette,
the infinite effect from eye to window cuts
to millions of pieces of mirrored selves.
The water drains from the watering hole,
A clay bed reflection.
The banks crack, crumble, coalesce into a bed
where two faces meet,
one lacking eyebrows: exasperated, emptied.

Our lives started with the first note ever played,
in the couch cushions where the second **** is displayed.

And our vision for this world,
it will not die when we are dead.
Death brings moments:
trees split by lightning,
grown men struck by screams
growing from a seed
planted in a field of dusty branches.
To plant a seed is to say we’re dead.
And when we are dead,
a weeping willow will grow from the ashes.