1/1/19
Parcels tied with orange string
appear on the doorstep,
reminding you of the days you lost
and the days you left behind.
She looks at you
as you break the seal.
A sigil buried in yellow
burns in harmony
with ashen tears and
a terrible war behind it.
The victors bask
in the weeping glow.
Forgotten moments are bathed in blue
and sing to ancient hymns
where right and wrong
are not meant to be determined.
Guesswork
is the realm of the gods.
Purple basks in the summer
winds and whispers
in the ears of lovers
wishing them well in their thrills.
For wishes hide
the lying truths.
