At a terrifying pace,
the sunflowers flicker and burst,
tremble
and wilt.
The dandelion seeds are mosquitoes
(welcome home, East Coast)
drifting in clouds
towards the trains of summer,
as they slip back into their pounding forests
and wild night—
diminishing—
their lights visible only on the boughs of sentinel pines.
How can they be set down, forgotten?
They are the last living lamplight.
They are the sole surviving flame
fading
when we need it most.
When winter—
That tired place where the unresolved is ruler
Where we are so much slower than the time it takes gardens to die—
is coming.
All the tattoos, music, and art work on this site is my own except where noted. Feel free to contact me for CDs, prints, or tattoo appointments. I don't charge anything unless it's a significantly large piece, but leave it open to you what you feel like you can afford/want to trade/give.
