We don't need renditions of reality,
Passing the bled leaves of autumn between one another,
As tokens of memories. Wrought nostalgia in dusty cracked clay, moulded by crooked weak hands, bones flung against dirt, smudging the faded blemish black.
Gnashed blossoms, promises of sweeping vastness broad upon a raw world green glistening; clutching mountain roots, cracks flush through the courageous stone, pouring the shadow in a flooding pounce, the hurtling grey makes hands clutch at torn petals.
Taken fragrant shards in softly bitter folds of skin, pouring drops of dust upon shivering mirrors, their faces lost in a fluterring rush of future.
What exists only exists.