March…

You know what I remember?

I remember a soaked red sky

under moonlit oceans

and the colors of every shred,

the heart songs of children

tucked away in their bed,

singing blue songs for April

through the holes in their head.

 

This I recall as I sit in my depth

inside my bottle

spilling over with dread,

but change is a clean glass

way high on the shelf

and the sun is a morning away,

where the glorious soul

does its dance for the day,

and the cradle begins

what I hope and I pray.

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