I wish my fists would unfurl
like the curls of her hair

Lay my hands down
separate from the rest of me
wrapped in tired vines
which held on too tightly
to dreams which have long died

Despite the wilted pedals  
I still wait for
the open coffin nightly
Dream lie,
play pretend with me, seek and hide

these overgrown weeds
knots of blame to which they are tied
to loosen or to lose
which is the virtuous side

I am able
though its not my type
I call it winning when I
bring the dead back to life