We hear it must be fun to die.
The ground lying on the ground is the sky.
The songs you hate do not make a sound.
The sky is a cloak covering the ground.
The words you spoke never get mentioned
nor the lies, nor anyone—even the best intentioned
who loved you, altered, smiled, then quit,
the attempt to break your heart—nothing comes of it.
The betrayal, the sabotage? Nothing which hurts comes near
and others, others, others, not you—shed that tear.
Yes, we hear it is fun to die.
Some day, when it’s gray, I’ll give it a try.
There’s always plenty of sleep.
They who had their say, rest. I weep.
I walk upon decaying ground,
hold the poem, wrestle with renewing sound,
attempt to refresh the buried heart,
the small one, the one which never got a chance to start.
I lie on the pillow, sleepless and warm.
My breath in my ear sounds like a storm.