And I Have Trampled Them Before

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I trample the flowering buds of thought
with worn, cracked feet
hovering just above the dirt from which they came
I suppress the urge to think
Scrawling your name across the pavement
Slowly sinking behind the snow.
My hands quiver
I say the cold is culprit but even my unborn subconscious
Rising like a babe from bloody remains
knows better.
I cannot allow the buds to burst open
And spill into this world a new breath
Of thought and creation that threatens
To turn my own self and my brother
Against me





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