In envelopes of my collection box
My heartache rests beside my lover’s hair
Rusted pins and unused pens
Worn well and never used.
Could opening be the end?
I drove a long night
Through windy roads
Of Scotland’s y’Or
Great Bras d’Or,
And long wild grass on feral land:
Swan song I’ll sing again.
Head can see, alighted way
Matchsticks lite Borrower’s torch;
Down a cold tunnel with dripping water.
Lover’s name in a letter she carried.
Callused hands retire the nails
Deep within the stones
Breaking bricks with mortar encrusted
Lifeless disdain
Truth! Let it last forever
Let if flow from the origins
Through the fields of glassy cotton
Past the trees, grandeur in size
Given time the growth shall rupture
the pin pricked stones
Covering all ground with divine grace
Seeping sin like blood transfusions
Alas the truth it envisions
A new look, upon the dry bones
Capturing every bit of dead skin
The growth shall offer: forever bliss