What died
to make this world;
the useless designs
the births, the paperwork–
dead words in old letters
kept, from weakness
and sentimentality–
the inability to truly part;
the refusal to throw
useless things out…
Fear, confusion, uncertainty–
the trees that perished
unwillingly–to make
the wood for this floor
polished by dull feet
pacing away the days
in a chain of purpose
yet to be determined…
What died to give
life back its freshness?
Rocks on the floor
arranged in mock monuments
with old leaves (still red)
and flowers overlain (the ones
you shouldn’t have picked)
the leaves that go
largely unnoticed
except by the mawkish
romantic collector
who feigns interest
to hide boredom–
or worse; indifference.