Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.

In the golden hour,
we held hands through the grass as we roamed through the fields of flowers.
We blew dandelions and chased their tails,
hearing the birds sing and share their tales.

I remember
I plucked pretty yellows clovers,
and placed them under your chin.
I checked the data and analysed,
to see if you liked butter
in your sandwiches.
And of course
the results are in.
- You did.

Do you know how many little buds we wasted before they were in their full bloom?
Pulling off each petal,
to reveal the stem,
alone in the gloom.
One-by-one,
one afternoon,
as the petals fell,
we asked the fairies too,
if the boys we liked
loved us or not.
And we didn’t like the answer
we’d tell them to go and rot.
We were too young to have any clue.
Pulling flowers seemed like such an innocent thing to do.

But don’t you miss those days?
When we would
make those dainty
little daisy chains.

This now seems like a distant memory.
But we’ll forever be known as
The Meadow Queens,
dancing in the fields,
before the stars would come out
and lull us to sleep.
What a sweet
Lavender Dream.

That day, my tears surrendered—

no flood, no fight, just silence.
It stopped feeling,

as if watching Nagasaki fall,

a mushroom cloud rising, 

bodies frozen,
shadows left behind,

no scream, no running—

just acceptance.
You built a void within me,

 an implosion of despair,

and sealed it shut.