so it goes: we smile so
much beneath the fear that time
depends on every crimson tear shed
upon this fading stage.
a twist of scarlet anger, sea of
red; a bed of thorns and roses, a steering
wheel to our other darker side, the
barrow where we bury what we hide.
glazed and confused, we fuse our quills
with indigo and silence, spit of
rain to wash us clean. this
water falls and calls us still, unseen.
beside the ashes that remain,
the worlds we ponder stay the same:
white sheets waiting. broken seas.
chickens scrabbling in the sun.
A reverse Golden Shovel based on this poem.
For day 6: