The trinity of tears

Dark.

a cesspool of you
almost inviting
in the final push.

Lost.

green river grass
bobs and flows
on the surface
and then plunges
inside - deep, deep inside.

Forgotten?

so soon
so smug.
may be veiled
the pain, the hurt?

Who knows?
and why would one know?

Banana spiders build cobwebs
only in the season,
only at the right time -
disappear.

The space between things
either
pushes or pulls.

Morning mourns...

The sweet pain of acceptance.

A full moon night folds up
in smoky curls.
Wisps of blush spreads over -
the naked canvass of the dark sky.

Mist camouflages the tears -
sharp and stinging that well up
each time the sky expels
a new morning.

The pang of child birth -
clenching muscles,
serial, violent rejection
of own's own flesh -

A new day is born.