I had another dream last night

In which I walked a crooked path

Almost lost beneath tangled weeds

That choked the life from wildflowers.

And each step I took along this path left

Boot marks in the spongy earth to fill with

Blood as those flowers were crushed, the agony

Of my passing a cacophony of silent regrets.

But the weeds, though trapped by the roots

That bound them, skittered and groped for

Those scarlet pools, drinking deeply of what

I left behind, yet unsatisfied by what they found.

Knowing, perhaps, that dead things should be

Left alone, but drinking anyway, squirming

Like poison vipers or bitter memories wrought

By those whose thirst cannot be sated…

END

“Dead Things”