All things grave
And lovely
Have their birth
In terrible pain,
So, in grand defiance,
I'll go into the garden again,
Smear the ashes
Of the past
Across my forehead
And whisper mea culpa
For my sins.
Torment blocks me;
I want to write
And be real,
But the only way
Is to be vulnerable again
To the pain
That first made me feel.
You made your mark—
It left a scar,
And the bruise
Still remains;
It haunts me
Down my days
In the haze
Of autumn fires,
The glow
Of burning spars...
Nights of sobbing stars
And the inability
To return again.
