Haibun Yang

Forgiving, cleansing, no. Instead, regretful musing toward an immovable frame, cloudy skies lingering beneath our feet, feasting upon mournful rays, the intention to illuminate, to unbury oozing, weeping, rotting, to pull despair from its hallowed ground- forcing currency from weakened, bankrupt, infantile souls, your thorn-prick unpaid.

Forget, forgot. Pause.

Resurrection drains you, too.

Let the dead grow weeds.