Sorrow Declining a Healing

Sponge socks, for walking on your eggshells quietly whether they're robin's egg blue in the rain speckled and peppered with bundles of pain or whether they're white like innocence bleached by the sun, on the beach in a driftwood dry nest Poppy petals, for covering over your eyelids of tears whether they're brimming for long lost romance or promises pandered or fleeting of chance sealing them up with a sensory stance by the red, under velvet with sweet pollen dust Creamed milk, for soaking your burning lips in whether the sun dried their wishes in mist caught up in the dew and dispersed in a kiss or whether you burnt them by cease and desist of the fire you riddled and rolled off your tongue. Cupped hands, to cover your delicate ears in their hearing whether you're straining and leaning for truth or freezing your ear drums on bowls of dispute or whether you hear only lies from your youth by the gut of your slain self-esteem All of these things make you quite the high maintenance whether it's eggshells and glue in the wind or petals in nitrogen tears on the mend or souring cream or my palm's condescend while I tire and endlessly string back your hair with a sorrow declining a healing.