the leaves, as ever, are green
and lightly flutter with the faintest breeze
in this land without season,
but phantom shadows still haunt me
and all i see is the browning and falling
of everything about.
the curtain is drawn on
a furious year; desperate days gasp
to a sobbing, heaving close
and what you thought were eternal bonds,
forged of endless moments, perspiration
and tears, are nothing
more than the elusive wind,
memories and relationships of the stage.
thus we dwell and deal
in the superficial, skimming forever
on fragile surface, fearing what lies
below, of what may shatter the careful
illusion. thus we exist within the cracks
of what is real and we are content.
then let me clasp trembling hands
over the stillness of my breast
under the pungent dirt, tossed
carelessly with nary a glance
into the yawning chasm of self and soul;
let me utter under stifling clay
wretched cries drawn from
the well of infinite sorrow;
let me shed salty tears
into the grateful grasp of barren earth,
so let me rest.
