The memory was a black and white truth in my soul
A death I kept dying, growing like sick bent flowers
Which I watered with my tears, a flood, a deluge
And there was a field grown overnight that I had once cleared
I was going to build a peaceful home there one day
But now it was wild and the ground shook
How I wanted to throw myself upon it, let it swallow me up
Let myself sink down into it to feed its hungry infant cries
But I did not, instead I stood until the tears dried
I stood straight until the trembles grew quiet, lazy, complacent
And the flowers thirsted then sunk down and blew away
Now that field is just a field, still pretty in the light
Perhaps oneday I will build something there
Perhaps not, and it will remain one of the great empty places
In my world...
