How you make phantoms with words,
how you weave new hope sparking the heart
to open, rich as a mountain flower
Phantoms are made, not born
but they have children of their own
Grief, Regret, Deprivation
born out of moments of promise
thrown out carelessly, playfully?
only to be snatched back
in all seriousness
How ruined is the heart that has been toyed with,
how wild grows the garden
that was seeded then left untended?
January 6, 2009