- no title -

I didn't ask, didn't want to know why,
When I couldn't hear the hummingbird's cry.
It was too jarring, hard to comprehend.
The weight of that red right hand.

The ashen mist, the harrowing trees.
Phantasms dancing, swaying.
When all the crimson had diminished away,
My red right hand, stained there to stay.

A few days later, the rain came along.
I still could not hear that hummingbird's song.
The only comfort I could find,
Was underneath gray crystalline skies.

Mother's words heeded me,
To enjoy life, to let it be.
Though I still failed to understand.
The true weight of my red right hand.

Do you ever have flashes of the past?
Like puddled memories on muddied grass.
Images of the metal and bone,
Decaying on the forest stones.

Years later, I still return,
With the dark clouds were skewed,
The forest floor is still that shade of gray.
Though now, I wear gloves when I decide to amuse.

I still fail to understand,
The burden of the unplanned.
Though at least the stains are hidden
From the eyes of the divine.

Now I just pay to call,
My hair and beard like that forest floor,
I last can close my eyes and
Remember my red right hand no more.