Wilt

A poem about memories, dreams, and sifting through the dirt......

Wilting Petals
tell us a story
of the past, when we rolled along with the ideas of wheels.
Can you tell me how you’d feel?
When I touched you with my shield,
And forced you back ten thousand feet to lift your heels
and run.

Can we hide in tents of steel?

Can we build a hill of leaves
and twigs and logs and mud and peel,
And mix it in a bed of meal,
To watch them grow from sprout to stalk,
While we sit and eat and play and talk
and remember how to kneel?

The emptiness of neon gasses,
Bags of dirt and the clink of glasses
span the masses and the little ones too.
And they’ll tell you a secret tale
of secret ways and secret dreams
that they all share; that they all seem
to secretly hope for you.

So gather your bags and logs and peel,
And sew them into your tents of steel,
And stand inside to look around,
To gather how you feel;
To ask yourself why this life
has never seemed so real
as when you looked upon the wilting petals
and knew that you’d regret
you knew that you’d forever steal.
You knew that you’d forget.