45.

The aching that my heart carries…

Is like black and char married.

The dark is yang, in all of its displeasure.

The heart is faint, in all of its density.

It’s been blackened, and lonesome.

I am shattered, and so I roam some.

I stumble across a flower with its pedals, sanctified.

I look with angel eyes, seeing the veil revealed.

I am alone till death – and I pray that my heart heals.

I pick up this flower, already dead, so I carry its burden in my grasp.

Sitting down, I pick its pedals in my lap.

If life is a trap…

I figure I enjoy it’s black.