Something's dead
I will bury the remains of Spring under a big tree,
in a small box made of stone. I will bury my hair,
and flowers, my dreams, and my hopes, a damaged organ
that keeps on bleeding, and a smile that refuses to
live any longer. I will put dead flowers to rot upon
this grave, and small cold pebbles on top of it. Then
I will walk away, I'll never look back, never come back.