Cocoons of Farthering

Dead blossoms of chrysanthemums

scatter the tomb floor searching

for the longing that kept alive desire

that drives the futuring of our context.

Farther and farther apart we grow—

wireless cocoons of connective alone.

I weep as flowers weep, dropping petals,

tears of yellow and orange and red,

waiting the brown’s dried sweeping

of contempt that creeps unnervingly.

Farther and farther apart we grow—

wireless cocoons of connective alone.

Only the pretty make for pictures,

leaving lumps of self portraits

made of arm’s length then scattered

for liking of unspoken derision.

Farther and farther apart we grow—

wireless cocoons of connective alone.