fell upon the grass blades
as hopeless Roman soldiers
falling upon their swords
the refuse of speech
was the color of the sky
in the cold morning dew
the curtains still pulled
the veil still thick
for any parting rays of dawn
it was still the crickets
to serenade the ticking clock
as cicadas yet slumbered
the written word bellowed
forth from the belly of flame
the heat licked and savored
each and every letter and line
and the release blanketed
the grass swimming in dew
fragile fragments laid
unwavering in the stillness
of the growing light
remnants of lovely lips
kissed farewell the night
