Every dark thing, a turbulent mass of nothing;
every forgotten hope, a sanctimonious silence;
every lost dream, a memory of ******;
meet me by the tree growing in the echoes of violence.

These old woes, heavy in your beaten head;
these philharmonic nightmares, blessed with ultraviolet light;
these sorry worries, pontificating to the ignorant;
meet me by the tree with leaves that shimmer out of sight.

Too many ugly voices, stretched thin in your clothing;
too many stranded friends, veiled in your weathered face;
too many judges, stealing notes from the executioners;
meet me by the tree that holds it all in place.

And you, lonely little girl,
far from the envy of a century,
sing the quiet war songs of your ancestry.

~~

o brokenhearted girl


why do you
cry yourself
to sleep
at night


you're already dead


let go

~~