my heart a grave.
where all that spins
a single drop of flesh
deep into an orchard of a scar.
small lives as fresh as sawdust
through messages of midnights silent fall
once brighter than the glass of summers wine.
a child no more.
no secrets in the letters that I write
in foreign tongue of epitaph and scrawl
of living things in crowded halls
where comes an age no wiser than before.
how many wreaths of satin lie in wait?
I see no logic in the single rose that burns
where mother sleeps away her fond farewell.
her heart is now a deeper grave than mine
where all that spins
the single drop of love
be hers until the very end of time;