The Way Things Go
I wish desperately that I could change the way.
'The Way,' the way that everything goes.
I whisper to god that which no one can know.
And I keep to myself that which I show.
Ultimately, I reap what I sow.
But the weeping of a crow ringing oh so low, closes the posies from rowing to and fro.
In such a fashion, one should not go.
In such a pattern one mustn't grow.
Blow by blow, husk to husk, sets the sun abask the decrepit cross.
And when one finally blossomed, it went on to outshine my loss.