To the arranged bouquet,

Gently emerging from the dirt,

I will take myself to the taint,

Gracing my lowered self to the hurt.

Your beauty is a suffocation,

An enclosed memory

Of all that drinks in the scenery,

Of a mind that lifts, to no defeated end.

Blood is discovered,

As the raindrops from the open wound

Of the parted clouds.

Your mind lifts into great sorrows

Granting funerary depictions of something so done,

Yet, undone,

As our love, with cruelty.

Leave your aching, silver throat

To the moon’s sculpture,

Of itself, lifted without reason,

Showing in no season,

Besides the darkness that makes the night,

Without light

To make the day.

I am beneath,

Lowered by the trees,

Their roots,

To their origin.