Decay

April truly is “the cruelest month,” For all the warmth her countenance sustains, And all the green her steady rains allow, Do creeping shadows work to hide away For what first came a sign of promised bloom I fear will sleep forever underneath: The seeds we planted eagerly below Were buried far too soon and far too deep Within the fathoms of my faded soul, I cannot understand why it must be That nature’s passive play should come to mock The words I spoke in truth and longed to keep I stand alone now waiting for the rain, Though I’ll not find relief within her tears, But I will linger here where worms will writhe, And birds will sing, though I will fail to hear.