This road will not take you to a theme.
In wind,
a pebble was making different strokes.
Hanging stones were hiding
the music of poppies.
To fill in my glass of silver
I place the stitches in images of naked wounds,
slapping the pink roses on lips,
the shadow of terrible interior crawling out in tears.
The incredible space
between hollyhocks
bends down to pick up dead silk
of fallen monarchs.
The colors will find the other side of moon in dark,
except infinity.
