I have seen the skulls
Laughing as tears
Ran like beads of wax.
Backed up against a cracked mirror,
Images of the aurous haired child
Stares at me holding a withered
Bouquet of violets and dandelions.
Take them small outstretched hands say,
The taste of rotting memories
Nails its way between us,
Our tongues dry.
Crunching snow under our
Black boots back to
When the crushed butterfly slept
On the bed of autumn,
I felt the soft wings with
Do you remember sad sweetness?
I know her too little and too well.