balloons, out of helium, sent into the atmosphere
brightly coloured specks of who knows what
collapsed and shrivelled.
rot full of worms
and the seeds sprout inside
trying to grow.
dead tree, lightning-struck,
falls during a storm.
like the old question, does anyone hear?
knowing there's more
doesn't mean you find it
lost and alone
trudge through the sand
of a dried out ocean, fish-bones and shells littering the ground.
the cemetery of your life
spreads out around you, desolate and still
and you sit hopeless
cross-legged on the dirt
hoping for the sound
of a butterfly's wing
shifting the air.
nursery walls that held you safe, comforted
are crumbled now, and the crib over-turned,
blankets spread out and filthy in the rubble.
so, so tired
you sleep in a grave
a half-dozen feet, a man's height, below the earth
waiting for the sun to warm you
waiting for a lightning-strike to restart your heart
waiting for the sound of a butterfly's wing
waiting for more than what you have
because all you have is
this grave you lie in.
© Elizabeth Klassen 2009