You planted your grief in the ground
so as not to make a swamp of
your humors. Now your laments
grow in the earth, and sprout
clothed in weeping foliage.
And the Lord, and his wonder
will soon be shrouded during
day by opaque sheets made
of wailing shadow. Your stare,
wild, orange, true, into this
shade of blue that makes all trees
black in a way that
silences the eye, traces
a vague hope onto this wind's
air, onto this darkening
opus. Your songs grow swiftly
near the stoic joints of long
sleeping roots, loosening,
by fire in seeds that you
planted. Know your troubled ciphers,
in them, still burn, but I hope that
your search, your thirst, your lust for
pain ends.