Truth, my darling,

I see you dying.

I guess fear

is to blame,

the greed of man too.

It must be birthed from hurt.

I see no other explanation

really worth a damn.

but love still whispers.

she sings in autumns rain.

I feel it, piercing through

the broken eyes.

maybe the empire

of modern man

is just -

at it’s fall.

and smoke will black the sky

until stillness falls into repose-

and flowers rise

in our old sun.