Hands have no trouble holding the hilt
of the weapon which ensures their destruction–
yet they begin to tremble when accused
of their own destructive nature.
Lips kiss the chrysanthemums and forget-me-nots
for forever, or until their
saliva-drenched state quenches
their selfish, sloppy temper.
Hearts construct high, guarded castles of ash
and black bark, concealing themselves
behind dense bushes of deep red cherries
and the corpses of dead doves.
Eyes carry the unsung wishes of humans
who feared too much to dream
but lived so carelessly
that now nothing exists at all.
So let all be still and silent
in the coppice that is forever damned
to the liminal–
forever nearly dead, forever never alive.