Dear, the pasture is truly death and unseen to our naked eyes. It hoodwinks you with thousands of good-natured beaming sunflowers to raise their hats to you, as your tread your feet to get in there. Those unfazed blazes may blind you in the middle of a sward, full of chasm, and nothing but too waste. She bears witness to the things there, she bears the pain of the stalks that pierced her feet, and she bears the shrieks that hang there with your mind's eye for idles. 

"I do not hold you, but I whisper to your heart. I write to guide, not to set you free. Not that I am far up there, but I am here to crouch with you in our solitude."

She ended it just before she turned back to dust. (2021)