we are plagued by our dead ends.
we let the infected touch the earth for us.
we watch them tie our hedges in knots.
in the high spire we exchange candles
with the glass-shattered saints
for a flame to judge the evergreen maze
or whoever’s feet it writhed from.
we follow a trail of ashes
to the childhood vision long overgrown
and drag the statues to our gardens
because they never see past their simpler time
we like that.
we wash out the mortality with fountain song.
see, it is not stealing when Persephone was
already forced into hell.
when it all comes down
war is flattened land to impose gardens on.
we have tamed beasts before with right angles.
we have taught the flowers our language
so we can understand where man ends
and asymmetry begins.
we are rulers; measurers of charted lands.
the rest is but petalled hearts and absent dreams.
we remembered our blood beating
in the machine thumping
and let moss soften our edges.
this is why the ships launched:
not for the new age, not for a time past
but a time that will come again
as it always does, beauty
we let the ships drown for chaos
as it splits the pavement gently.