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 Reddened fingertips. Do you remember sad sweetness? She nods. I know her too little and too well. […]