There is no space if it can’t contain
There is no being if there is no strain
The hollow heavens and the secret earth
gives home to death, or call it birth
The mushy moss and the bare concrete
turn to gregarious ground with the bitter sweet
Your melancholy melody reverberate the roots
Your laughter echoes and bears new fruit
The brittle bones are all that’s left
The company you keep is grounded with death
Such a strange place for a lively soul
Your fluids fertilize the dirt to become whole
Without the support of your stem, life would welt
You give essence to the seed and sprouts felt
Once buried in the filth in a single place,
but now lush presence thrives, and derives from Grace