I was twenty-four, my friend, and getting married; we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into when we passed over the field of poppies that said, “We are the numbers to end all numbers. You can try, but you cannot count us away.”
Here I stand amid the ruins, here I seek for answers through thoughts riddled in confusion, the chaos clinking together like iron fetters. My very thoughts are ringing, forged in silence, chain by chain. Release me, for I am bound.
We live in the blank space between stanzas; we stand in the gaps between words, watching the poems float by and letting their inky melodies drip over our consciousnesses, idle to the idea that some words need to be blacked out, and that others need to remain so that we are truly heard.
The time has come to fell the flowers; it’s autumn now, the summer’s bounty waning. Outside I go, in the late morning hours, to do the deed, a buoyant manner feigning. Butterfly and bee fulfill their merry task of going back and forth between each bloom. Do they see me? If so, they do not ask whether I come to bring the garden’s doom.