such a strange Spring
the tulips hold blood on their lips
while robins and larks cry murder
in the evenings the cold folds it hands
to pray throughout the night
the trees open their arms
to litter the streets with pleas
petitions to the far off sun
to burn away this old and
so very renewed injustice
the bare twigs are whipped by the winds
in hope that it will awaken
the sleeping mass with their feet in the ground
their pale oblivion keeps them numb
still so very chilled
still so very untouched
still so very disconnected from the sun
ready to burn it all away
but the winter white will melt
and the rains will wash
away those ashes
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