into the soil plunge these hands
into the broken-down twigs of a planned event
fingers push past shattered beetle husk
and twisted leg
of grasshopper lingered too long
nails collect the minute gasp of leaf
dreaming still of tree and wind –
will the wind ever let us go?
like a whisper it enters the shell
of our dream
calls to us across the long, long eon
of hope –
how many of us fear
after all this time
we have been wrong?
into the darkness
into the moist regret of a thing
not done, the understood stench
of it being too late
like a voice in the night
too late, too late
the sun is long gone –
did it settle for a thing
other than our intent?
cover me with straw
cover me with mulch
with broken fragment with silent song
into the decay of day
into the decline of time
into the final gasp, a flurry of fake warmth
and then the stillness –
the rigor mortis of freedom
lost in reality
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