As morning glory creeps across the blasted tree
and bright flowers hide the ravages of rot,
as autumn vines drape cold tumbled stones
warming dead ruins with cascades of fire
and red poppies carpet the fields of muddy death
time will weave a heart of sorts
to replace the one I gave to you.
But though the passing weeks and months and years
will heal the wound and fill the empty space
with some sweet froth of trivia
that leaves no lingering taste upon the tongue
no pain, no deep-carved emotion in the gut
nothing will ever be the same again.
The world, my heart, the poppy-covered mud
all are changed utterly
and I mourn the stillbirth
of the beauty that could have been.