The specks of dew on green veined
canvas, a white lily blossoming on limpid dreams
perishable though, not wasted,
yet—

but someday would be.

Words, heavier than the meaning
they bear, sink
in the depths of the heart, where dreamers
fear to tread, where the flowers wilt before they bloom,

and the morning sunshine can’t disperse the fog
of gloom.

Because the smog hangs in your mind
the fire burns, smoke rises and ashes fade away

Where do the downtrodden paths lead?
(Raked in mud, some yours, mostly other’s)
Except to misery and pain and remorse?
(mostly yours, none other’s)

sing yourself to sleep, their voices will never reach you

and pure snow gets soiled before it reaches the mud.
And gossamer webs
lose their lustre as the truth begins to untangle and bonds
rupture, quietly in contempt.

and you never know they did until
the blood stops drying.


But when the lily stands tall,
squinting at the skies, blind but brave
gashes glaring from stems, holes peeping--

those phantoms you once raised.

Kill them, and rise from their blood.
and the marshes that once raised you will never touch you again