Hush. Hush to papery petals that flitter and fly;
The Flowers of the Field are precious in their volatile flight.
Hush. Hush to roots that quake in the winter cold;
Whose hand dipped you in the irregularity of December’s icy mould?
I remember the ink-blotch ravens that stained the nights with their darkness
How silent are they but for their feathers’ tangled embrace of the cold in their fall.
I taste night as numb and bitter as day
We are blind men groping at the intangible strings of the Sun.
How much beauty did your mind swim with in your youth?
Count the stars of Fortune which encircled your head as gentle sleep washed upon you.
The time is gone, gone as ribbons in the chaotic regions of space,
Like the grain which held your life, consumed by sands too numerous to swish about in your head.
There is no lullaby to soothe the ache
Gardens are fields of promises destined to die, mid-laugh.
Flowers mock the mortality of man.
Why delight in the temporal, bathe in the ignorance of joy?
No, let them laugh before the time is gone, and numbness is their only friend.
Celestials fall asleep in the vast plains of space.
Sugar hearts dissolve in syrupy reality.
The petals of flowers are wisps, figments
They die in this world but dream of waking up in another.
*A slightly more cynical, sombre piece. I’ve been feeling rather bummed out lately, and I was able to let out some of my more repressed feelings of disillusionment through writing this. I should probably just go rewatch The Room with Marshall and cheer up already.