smashed flowerpot, obscured from sight
though windowed pillars bright and thick
no decay in oath or conviction, we become ghosts
echoes held up with still grim arms
as the answer comes in waves--
what i broke i can't fix
seven stories and my hands
to push the thought away, pathetically
a last resort of self-defence
the lives grown-
vines from
menagerie of consequences to lessons that i've yet to learn
through bleak and weary thoughts, the dilapidated rocks below-
finality i didn't want to know
as though there were escape from a freshly orphaned fate so deliberate
i deliver myself from grief and hindsight
and for a time, at least,
i'd never felt so
with your eyes closed you won't see your hands shake
take a step back, you can't see the landing
it's a flimsy way to cope, but i'll take the bait
no decay in oath or conviction
i can't say it, no, i can't
consequences to lessons that i've yet to learn, and
i can't say it, no, i can't
as though there was something that i could've done different,
i can't say it, no, i can't
i can't say it, no, i can't-
what good is saying what i can't
in the guise of a metaphor about a plant?
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