From love to ash,
Sunsets and memories to laugh,
Oh, so wild it be,
The times we grasp.
How difficult, to let go, though it leads me to clash.
Cut the sash,
Let fall, what is of the past.
Sorrow shall not last
I wish to be my victim, a driver of whiplash,
A thinker of the brash
Always finding reason to crash.
Pick up what I thought was forever.
But was never meant to last.
Place it upon the fire,
Let it flourish, to ash.
Or think by words of trash,
“Maybe if I fought a little harder, or was a bit, more clever.
It would have been meant to be
To be of sculpture
Something to revel.”
Drinking what was, will never lead one sober.
Will never move you forward,
Allowing the broken to speak your answer.
A painter disguising the dictator,
Such bears only weakness.
Granting fruits that gush with color,
But be false, and breed, of poison,
Far, from a savior.
A gardener does no keep what is rotten,
Though it once held beauty,
Or it shall plunder,
Taking what does not bring about the loather.
The scorner, the jealous foreigner.
But tears the rotten
Keeping what fertilizes the culture,
The roots, that keep together.
Allow the flames of truth to be your gardener,
Take the pain of uprooting, as a dinner,
Of sustenance for the soul
To no longer be a griever,
But an author.
A writer beyond their blunders.
Let the flames burn,
Bring not even an urn,
It is time, for hours that be dead,
To no longer clammer,
Not longer clutter
And no longer give answer.
Set blaze the frame, let it no longer, be a picture.