Rusted lines, crooked spines and petals in the stones.
Stormy skies are rattling like the trembling in your bones,
And with the curving iron and the rotting, sodden wood,
Comes a coffin feeling of a world misunderstood.
Static in the air to warn the trembling ground of storm,
And soon the trees are buffered with a gusting, threatening swarm,
And when the forest’s eyes descend upon my tired feet,
The taste of swollen air maintains a tone that’s more than sweet.
The starkness of the blossoms makes to frame the clouded sky.
A flush that’s pale and sweet against a breeze’s gentle sigh.
My blue heart hasn’t ground against my aching ribs in years.
Our winding trees remind us of the warm but silent tears.
The sun that started setting stopped to make way for a breeze,
That whistled through the railway tracks and grazed the tops of trees.
The breeze that sent a shiver up the spines of blades of grass,
That shattered through the atmosphere as though the world were glass.
My memories are dripping down my face as salty rain,
Because the air is burning with the static once again.
Our cherry blossom railway left the skies still burning blue,
But all the petals trapped in stones are all that’s left of you.