will roses grow
from where
all my mistakes
are buried?
wooden crosses
painted white
or a hill of grass
and stones.
silent marks
in quiet earth
surrounded by
laughter and forgetting.
ideas of air
fuel thought
trains as they
reach home.
your voice
pulls through
the strata of
stale ideals.
Don't want to win
if it means
lost sense of self
is victory.
what kind
of hero
stands against
mountains of steel?
children of tears
become river men
as time cricks
ages gears slips.
when carbon clings
to your hands
we'll lose our way
telling tales asleep.
(The soul goes beyond being / for all the precious worlds)
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