Spring’s ceaseless breeze; a petal bath. Prize-
winning weeds that tickle your calves. Old
Sisyphus getting God's helping hand.
This field of poppies in bloom for seasons;
even the sun's favorite daughter
will start searching for the tunnel.
How did your mind of many trenches fall here?
Here, a single charcoal leaf.
There, the pregnant moon shines a minute too long.
And a dark mirror floods your eyes.
Which road in these fields do you walk?
Who is it you have left behind?
The smell of exhaustion is close – an old friend, a past grave.
Will you ever return to sink
into one certainty among
cellar moss, reluctant aged grain in breath,
stench of prohibited elixir? Will you ever return
to caves of surrender, know that thirst for origin again?
How soft shadows are.
Simple to choose the darkest hole.
Not so to pick the prettiest flower.
Dance on, dance on
in the endless day.
Time will take his rein;
let him see you stumble,
fall back into the arms
of warm darkness
in cold wanted blood.