Bloated stems shoot out of my throat,
Reaching out for hopeful, yellow rays.
Repulsion sets in though,
Like your defeated Grace when you think
Of her face.
Your glass heart cannot take it this way.
These stems see this; they must escape.
Out of this sensation, there lays a
Hopeful lie.
(If there's ever such a thing.)
Gargoyles are the time keepers of her.
Oh how they stand guard of the memories
You still hold of her,
For her,
In you,
You're through.