little cracks recedes in the pavement,
weeds growing between cement blocks,
the random-ness of fruit placement,
some get bruised and hard around the clock.

the mystery of cutting of the arms,
when the ***** bleeds inner turmoil,
a hair-pin's gold in every barn,
hidden within the hay and the soil.

Her gentle eyes creates my tomb-stone,
a dove comes to pick seeds of the red roses,
over time the flowers dry and rot,
like first day I was placed in a cot.