Knives

This is the color of the end. Pastel and changeless. The truth folds under the weight of perception. We watch the cascade that fills the water. Trying to, but unable. To pinpoint the spot where that last penny was swallowed by the surface.

If we are. Or ever were. Alive. More than liars. This doorstep should remember our footprints. How long we stood there waiting for someone to answer our knocking.

How hard it was to push that button knowing it would be heard, but not necessarily acknowledged.

Like trampled flowers we imagine how the garden will be reborn again. When we are. How the seeds once broke open to be.

Like trampled flowers we remember how it once felt to stand up straight. To know that the sun was always waiting for us to look up. See it. As it always saw us.

Now dead roots are all that's left. Fallen fences.

How alive can I ever hope to be when everything they say. And don't say too. Stabs.

Always wanting me to know who they are. But never bothering to know who I am.

sometimes I don't rhyme, but this isn't one of them.

There is resolution in everything I've lost.