Knee high, ripples and wades.
Brutality. Puncturing the dirt.
Where spring blossoms once would flirt.
A blind woman, a deaf man
coming together the best they can.
Sounds of a voice, movement of fingers,
lost of one while the other steadfast lingers.
Is the year worth the time?
I've yet to decide.
I suppose this is how it was designed,
we are all but etchings washed away by tide.
The smell of her favorite perfume
swallowed up by yarn fibers
ghosts of the same smell loom
picking flowers that still haven't bloomed.
There is a man dressed in black, disguising his face.
He often vacations in the misery of humans,
delivering his envelopes at night, decoyed in red lace.