The sun still hides from me
sends me such cold days
while my strawberry garden
pales amongst all the broken bottles
and sycamore trees cast violently
to the shadows . . .
And clouds run backwards
in my mind, their shape changing
like the hands of the thin man
already in me, causing me
to lose myself in the chapel
late at night . . .
bridges form and unform before me
like undead daisies,
full of promises and dreams
that die and make choices
to lie themselves
in another violets flower bed.
And I fall and I fall
and shatter the hurricanes
on my way down
on my way down to the
waterstains and killer bees
and a garden that just won't grow . . .