The earth, that other world
mourns us with fresh flowers;
but there's no consolation in our flesh,
the castles in our mind, the colors of the sun.
This place without our consciousness
has something else, something more,
some key we are not meant to find
a lock for.
Dirt and birds and stones and leaves
are the players in this show
with perfect ebb and flow, and lines
so finely honed we never see
how we're excluded
like kings ever imprisoned in crowns.
