got caught on a tree, just had to tell you
a branch drew blood, and on my arm printed
an entrance stamp to this special venue,
written in red: a place for the wounded.

“how are things going, i wish you were here
what’s the weather like and have a good time
how ‘bout a toast with your favorite beer
i hate to go now, it feels like a crime”.

something made me stop, i wasn’t yet done,
i looked back and saw, while nursing my scar,                    
the colors and shapes had blurred into one:
a singular vision, clear from afar.

the carved stones nestled in the grass, just mown
looked like lost feathers from a flock, just flown