This Ground Used To Be Firm and Damp, But Now,
Now It's Broken and Soured Like Sunned Milk.
Tracing The Breaking in The Soil in Bare Feet,
Crumbles the Dirt and Feels Good on My Sole.
Deep Within The Crevasses I Find Myself Scratching
The Walls of Soot With Bitten Nails.
Carving Their Names in One By One, Their Names,
All Etched in Stumps. It Looks Vague, Too Vague:
- But So is Their Memory -
Haunting, Like The Subtle Crimson Creeping Its Way
Across The Lenses, Tinting Them an Obvious but Shallow Red.
The Recollections Are Like Fragmented Pieces of Record,
Badly Sticky Taped Back Together and Played Faintly.
A Collaboration of Memorium all Reeled Out In Expressioned
Noises. Just Rivets Holding Together Translucent Emotions.
By Finding Them, Their Memories, Their Names, How Their
Flesh Felt Slinking Up and Down Mine.
- I Find Myself -
A Determined Spectre of Insignificance Within My Own Mind,
Clawing Desperately at a Fantasy I see fit to Suit Myself With.
The Realisation Sank out of The Sky
and Under My Flesh...
To Find Yourself, Look Inside The Tapestry of Those You've Changed.