Running

from a sobbing land

that never settles.

Hiding

from the nomen they call us by

those names

carried through

the ghostly plains of Atlantis.






Veiling,

the wounds they embrace

in resignation

stains in white sheets

displayed

while we

bearing the scars in obligation

scavenge for a benevolent endearment.

Concealing

our lies we feed love

until dormant the stab becomes mute

under wild berries and purple hydrangeas.

Fleeing

from cries of exasperation

as they look defenseless

holding to a trail of pride

asking for absolution.



All is but a faded name

carved on a willow tree...