The setting of the sun, before the night begins
Tears overflowing, never breaking
This gentle rein
Parched throats, soft covers
In the midst of a crowd of ties
Undercover
Never leaving, never heeding
Words latched to the tongue
Like leeches, always breeding
The abstract has long reached its brim
Home to my heart, but gosh
Can we cut off this limb
The darkest dawn and the brightest night
Have so much in common
Can we blame our oversight
Burgundy sweater or maybe it was red
Your face, your story, your hair
Maybe, perhaps if only, hadn’t misread
Freshly mowed grass and valleys of thorns
Blood on your lips, gifted by Venus
Pine cones swaying in the wind, the kind eyes of change
How could she/we/he be so blind
Blazing flags, the precipice of the country, and the exhilarating rush of promising alliances
Humble cricket chirpings in the dead of the night, signalling a forthcoming of morning fright
Gushing mountain streams, sweet summer fruits
A lingering darkness, whispers turned to shouts
Full stomachs, what a genteel morn
Bickering custodians, of all that is torn
A crease in the passage of time
To pave the growth of daisies, sap and lime
Where will you hide your destitution?
In hollowed out crevices
In mockeries of your feeble excuses
In the bloody cracks on the ground
Where there is no moisture but the salvation of their lust
A holy dream of all that is just
