Awfully sweet, these flowers.

If the means to the end just wont work,
that's absurd.
Singular pronouns are meaning to wind up the earth.
It's not what you heard
fear has deferred to the dirt.

If the end will start the day,
its never so different
it's never the same.
If the parents are dying today,
like I imagined,'
what now remains?

My mother lays on her side,
tipping her dreams,
keeping both pillows warm,
feathers on her head,
flowers in her hair.


Cursing the night,
disappointed by day's
you bend towards the light
but calling it better's not right.

We can't blame the weather for the rest of our life.

My sister cries
for another glass at night.
Not half full through her life,
her father died
and the dirt he left her for
confides in me, so thirstily,
in words I can't repeat,
setting fire to the sea.

But aren't these flowers awfully sweet?