What One Might Assume of Loss
A deep abysmal abode
to lay down the trenched pump;
where the pump flows blood to
My mind of the wind whistling
in my ears.
When you notice what's vacant, a home,
is when you realize too
that loneliness is the least of worries--
memories never leave, and never fade.
And for when the ground does quake:
a chasm torn below; and within it
the graves of all those before who wrote
in dreams of black roses in photographs void color--
Clamber up towards the squawking buzzard,
lone upon the ledge, peering down with raven eyes;
It hungers for the archaic carnation
in my body's undecided disposition.