How ambar is your heart? How hard is your color?
The strings of spring have long snapped
and mud has now made residency in your boots.
Still, you walk where grass is still green.
Still you believe in the stillness of hope,
for it is your clear horizon,
for it is what you make of it,
for it is foggy and damp,
and clouds do you company.
You must remind me the movement of thought.
How it circles as if in the circus of fear,
where clowns are saints, yet nobody flies.
Do you rehearse death? Is it the lack of music?
Music is flowers, you the mortally struck gardener
realizing the smell of your own after death.
But you will already be gone and forgotten.
Forever preserved like piss, in the blood of trees.
