How can we exact revenge
on the wilted flowers
that take with them
their fermented scents and
livelihood?
Why must we be left,
stringing bells to the damned
as the goodness refuses to eat?

When I was blinded,
by both hind and foresight
and my present state was
merely a wish to the striking clouds.
A wish to deliver me from rotten
mournings, kept warm in mornings.

My God found me
shivering between dementia
and tying rope to the cieling.
My God took the stool from me
and sat on it in a room
I couldn't reach.

My God was tempting me
with His contempt.

I slept in the forest,
the same forest you plucked
dandelions from to string about
your locks of curly black.

We never met there,
but we both wrote our names
with a knife, cutting
into the same singing tree.

I never looked at you,
but you saw me, quietly
screaming in a corner of a clean
swampland. The habitual dawning rose and I never gave you one.
(though I should have)

I must give back now,
and tell you that there is
no revenge to be made
over beauty
being won over
by acid rain
and dirt that sticks.

No, nothing to be gained.

No geographical measure
can save you from it,
no partner can make it all
just.not.so.
No dandelion crown can appoint
a different victory dance.

We all must hug the brown ground,
with lost clothing and tossed
maskings.
We all must hug.

All it takes is what potpourri
you gather, and what smells
you regain for memory's measure.

Nothing can be saved
but everything can be changed
and will.
(and nothing else can matter
as hind and foresight
beg for a present)