your precisely placed golds, pinks, oranges, and splashes of rich reds
painted over by a mop-full of thick, dull graphite grey.
the words you so painfully extracted from your near-dead heart
agonizingly buried right back into the abyss of soul it came from.
your lyrics harvested from the insides of thinly-walled veins
dumped into a floating sea of dejected nothings.
shapes crafted from the convoluted map of a firing brain
morphed into one dimensional figures fitting perfectly inside a box.
frozen moments of space captured by a still-whirling mind
unfrozen and desecrated by your own, still-grieving mind.

there is a garden of complex wiring
between the sweet vacancies
of my ears.
i like to imagine the garden as wild,
thorny and rough.
i like to imagine the wallflowers as unforgiving,
unconstrained and ambitious.
climbing higher and higher and
reaching farther and farther until
one day
they’ll find a way out of my brain
out of this mind
and bloom into these outstretched hands.