How are the trees?
Do the petals still remain,
Without burning in their fall?
Was the sun there to leave,
Were we ever purposed to weep?
Even while the trail parts
Ahead of the fiery bridge crossed,
Were we ever always lost –
Upon the lit pathways
Where candles guide us
Towards those open gateways?
A stumbling through arms, for us,
While the earth begins to bleed.
Razors cut nothing deep for us,
Even upon split roadways.
Lifted upon the rope,
Hanging above the burning scar.
Leaving our trail for all behind
To find the sunrise worth imagining.
No witness upon what shall blind
Will notice the sunset crashing.
Hollow sounds for air-filled lungs,
Clenching a heart never attacked –
Before the blackest moment descends,
Finding fatal scenery at this end.
How many crosses will be lifted?
As Death’s children kiss the bend
Of stooped mothers, as ashes drifted.