Your bones remain a spectacle
across the crumbling brick box
that looms, decaying, like a shadow of some god
A promise whispered when dawn was just a theory
unproven, and we lay naked amidst the remains
Broken, marrow dried to scarlet dust
The alphabet of tribute I write with craven finger
A sorrow I accumulate and hold,
a fist that clenches in budding iris
and waits for your complete destruction
before it ever dares to bloom
-D.B. Rocca, 2012
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