From the rock
lost in the decay of another day.
I am not a daisy
nor a flower
Nor the herb of Ophelia
I saw her once in the garden
Among the fresh lilies of the river.
A thought that soon would quiver
I felt the pain rush, again
Only to lose momentum
in the sound
of the sound
of the sound.
Caught in the inoperent, day-dreaming tremor
Of lives gone by with no use
The smile of a seagull, the gaze of a gorilla
I am lost in the summertime whimper.
But a whispering clang
And from the clay came the restless, immovable dagger.