Life becomes a cascading nightmare
eerily hushed when those severed tears are
free flowing.
Arms wrap around stained bundles
of ruby red wine, blue grass and lipstick
pink collars.
Gathering up fragmented memories, nostrils crave
and sniff the last lingering scent till it sucks our innards dry,
and we never exhale.
Worn pockets hide secrets and they
scramble to the floor,
the texture of uncrumpled paper –
a still life –
fixes itself to my eyes,
‘Wash your heart in the ocean,
Sing your song to the sea.
Cry without morbid notion,
when you remember, me.’
Poet's Corner 