The songs of birds tell us stories between the leaves.
Those of wild flowers and rotted trees.
In the Garden of Tainted Fruits,
rest decaying and brittle,
soil and roots.
Empty truths
and spiteful pursuits,
fill the skies
under light
of quiet fireflies.
Beneath the shards of glass
stripped with fever and down to ash,
I ached to be your everything
when the sun collided against these walls.
In the quiet,
you were the loudest heart beat against my own.
As the moon took her rise,
she gently whispered;
” There’s nothing left to give. “
while her tears fell gently from the sky.
RochelleTascaArt 