springing

i have no reason to write these words except to say the words right me

the garden is blackness the wind it cuts the skin and feathers fall

the light is gone the children dead from the hand of children 
and the fire of lies burns 

the garden turns to green and the voices begin to sing
what brings this on
but the steady turn of days

the blood still flows
and the shackles tighten
and the people loose imagination

i have no reason to right the world with any words
when the world be wrings me out