Crushing weight that must exist
the lump we cannot swallow,
bitter wind that's whipping in
warmth now cold and hollow.
Do the flowers feel the strain
of making air and drinking rain,
of hopelessness they can't explain
when placed upon the window pane.
The wait for death yet nurtured still
the lingered sting of purgatory,
withered brown and trimming down
it's me in all my glory.
Clammy hands about the throat
then gloat at past conquest,
of all the battles won and lost
my love you were the best.
The lump we cannot swallow
rose's thorns and heaven's hell,
crushing weight that must exist
persist and kiss too well.