In the sunlit life I was
just as full of fervor as I was wrong.
Just as the green-flavored fruit
tasted from the saccharine orchard
in my dessert days, it seemed cruel
that sugar in another light and off the tongue
is only a valley of white sand
And we spent our time
tossing balls of yarn in the air
that never unraveled, only rolled
under some discrete porch
forgetting themselves in that unruly river.
Because before I was unmade
I circled the greenery of a lush meadow,
cycling around its edges in the
until the lines blurred in autumn,
and sometimes-trodden paths
were lost beneath the leaves.
To think, that circle,
just a loving price for soaring
along on the ground. I wonder sometimes
if my guide led me astray,
falling into some heady notion
that we were all just voices on the air,
and time turning in on itself
would never make us pause.