Of Songs & Flowers & Death That Devours

Going toward the meadow,
Building back the compote,
Bringing home the flowers,
to rot and rot and decompose.

I know not the warmth of light,
I know not of chills,
I know of the neutrality
Brought in past the hills.

But one day I hope to see:
All you’ve come to feel,
All you’ve come to know,
All you’ve left to heal,

Because the song, the melody,
Drifts softly o'er my bed
And sings the sweet tone primal-y,
Wafting through my head.