How to kill the past,
Bury it in mud,
To leave the leaves of an autumnal tempest
Back to where the sun
Cannot speak to those yesterdays,
Written in brail,
Believed by the blind.
How to kiss your hand
Lifted to the moon,
Where tears are shared by the blinding noon,
For no sun can see us,
For no sun can find
All that can be left behind,
To replace that which can believe us,
For we cannot see, what could not be.
We cannot choke the future,
On the past’s despicable placement
Of tears, in our hands,
Growing nothing more than blood.
Loving the future,
Wandering on towards meadows,
Means to grasp the rain,
To grow a forest from any pain.