the trees are dying.
they wither like my heart,
sunshineless.
millions of little branches,
now a forbidden forest.
for 'tis death's season and
love is like the dead furry things strewn on roads,
whose eyes stare at a clouded heaven,
crimsoned by two green evils
riding the darkest Mechanical.
should a misstep made be
the last mistake ever made?
this may be the closest i'll ever be to holding you.
this may be the closest i'll ever be to hearing you laugh (you always meant them) .
this may be the closest i'll ever be to seeing you dance, ballerina-style.
some of us are dying while
the rest of us are dying like dead furry things.
Casper Fields
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/f-r-davina/
