rattle, sobbing is scarce
among bleached white
sticks stuck in inches of
half climbing, half sitting;
memories in the ether
will not disturb such ruin
but mists wander
soullessly on the sun baked mud
where imprints of warring fists,
seized up with time,
lie on arid soil – mulch for spent
shells and ironclad machinery,
rusted, stuck, cold –
benumbed like the bare bones in shallow
graves still laughing, still unaware
Picture: Thank you, Paul Militaru.
Oh, my weeping willow
don’t spread your tears apart,
keep count of all the strings
to your heart.
So precious – your long and tender
reaches as curiosity flourishes closer
to the impressionist vacuum, which flaunts
your ersatz beauty above its murky depths
to make you sorrowful and ponder
its reasoning while your replication
is contemplative trail.
Sleep, my weeping willow,
sobbing south to face the marsh skies;
be weary now – you’ve earned it,
when you cry.