Bury the sorrow.
Throw the ashes to sea.
The wind will yell.
It may even scream.
Tell the clouds to cover your sweet warm wanting sun.
Don't fear, not for a second, the sunshine will dry your painfully remembered tears soon again.
Let those happy gleeful,oh so joyful, memories flow with the water that flows over your body.
The fresh heaven that,if everyday,you enjoy.
Day or night.
The warmth,that use to be her inner body.
Water,as a laugh comes across her face,is just not as sweet.
Satin red ruby gowns and fabric is the happiness that you gave her.
The night, stretched out for hours, under that faceless soul full moon.
You look at it now, and what you do say.
"Maybe she'll be waiting out my days."
That moon, wonderous and all knowing, glowing with beauty unmatched by anything ever seen before its time.
This moon that's up and open for less days than that of sun, knows more about your soul and love.
The son of and all right shine, before you stands tall, handsome, mysterious.
Are those the cold gray stone eye's that were once on the pale soft, crimson lip bloody, demon?
The wounds of skin, not showing at all, the beautiful boy that has never seen that wonderful woman that you wait for.
The clouds are storming past the gates and entering a town that they are more welcomed of.
The rain stands thick in the air, and salty wishing, but fear, you want now.
There. Do you see her? In the long, uncut, weedless green yard.
Her hair, far from a swirled halo, wips with the wind gently over her face where it stays and moves and brings the painless sight.
Grass flows just above her waist.
That waist you've touched one too many times before, making and mending her body to yours.
The rising moon, already fallen sun, milk sooth sink skin slowing against the dark side.
By that poor alike house you stand, trying to remember every small detail to rerun to your sweet loving hornis dreams.
Naked she stands watching the clouds roll in a dark blue of purple swirl, the same of the bruises on the perfect round hip.
Her body is perfect, you look down at your poorful bred blooded by blood blue vained body.
How she loved that body, when it was pressed tightly, closely against hers.
You can still feel her from that candle lit night before, the tightness she offered with the screams that only you could hear.
Looking back up, the grass is cut, fresh from yesterday.
The memory was still so fresh, of everything that must have happened between then and now.
Why can't you remember it, the hours and days that past.
You remember little things, clear perfect.
The little daisy that sat dying on the counter of some smoked out place with a heavy perfumed elder woman.
Even the tiny china tea set with the clay dull, nuthouse blue, cup with half a handle.
Still, you can't remember anything else.
Was there a fire, did it rain this morning, why does it smell of deep violets in that gloomy wall confined space you call a living room.
Your on bloody sketched knees, tears, mud, blood flowing down your face.
Stop trying to find the sorrow you happily buried.
Your nails broken, nothing.
Dirt dug deep into your skin, start digging again, you hit a sharp rock once more.
Another pain you do not feel as you dig deeper, will you ever find what you lost.
I hope not, it can only bring all those depressed feelings back.
The ground crumbles under your lost weight.
You look up and it's dark, the moon of your dreams was awaken.
The only light is coming from your poor dim sadly forgotten house.
Thats where she is.
The small beautiful girl, if only she had met her mother.
She is forgotten in a house that had her coughing worse than that of an old man.
Other wise, she's quiet. A perfect child they say.
Her hair is long straight,red stretching far past her waist, still so beautiful.
Ask her, go ahead, don't fear the sad lost lookin her big deep emotionless eyes.
'How are you so beautiful?',you say with a smile that makes her angry.
And you can see that daring raging height of anger.
She doesn't not say a word that her eye's and arms say for themselves.
She's not beautiful not to this world, she's just a lost soul that look so much like the mysterous hateful spit of a woman.
Bury the sorrow.