garish

the blood flowers are frozen/ the fields empty and cold. no the children don't grow old, they dont.

the old man coughed spasmically behind me on the bus,
chortling cartfuls of coughs and sputters grinding into the air behind my head
if everything could stop once and end then
i want it to pause at that foolish mistake
so i can always revel
and never have to regret it.

the breeze is the smooth caress of a thousand whispers. blow by me.