You will let me fade.
By breaking the branch, the petals fall,
Like rain on the barren, desolate wood.
It can be replaced,
With gears and metals
That rip young girls apart,
replacing in the process,
The soft, pale radience of
That sticky flesh, that cold.
What can be fixed?
Surely you aren't suggesting
What can't be fixed,
and held in place, The
Broken memoir of that.
The shadows have lifted
And hung over,
Past those drifting, blundering petals,
On their way to be pulled off,
painted new, and fastened
Again.
