The roses weep under
Hollow oak, how distant
Those dewdrops drip with
Fresh rainwater from the
Quiet morning clouds.
They whisper a lull of
Vacancy, motionless as
The churning mind of a
Widowed soul with a heart
Of amaranth and wildflower.
Taut and brittle with
Daunting eyes, fickle
Lungs, and brash lips.
Skin like fire below
Chilling moonlight.
This picture is faded
From the smudged pane,
Only clear enough to see
With faulty lenses as eyes.
This picture is painted
To carry deeper truths
Behind covered lies and
Empty words of birdsong.
. . .
You look through
The glass every day.