Ruining everything. I saw her crumbling. To witness a beast weeping.
Such strength; unbeknownst at times, dying seems difficult.
I used to marvel at her—thugged out and delicate.
It was pains to reap miseries; it was kindness to extract wisdom.
It takes a shift, for dear reason.
Another is suffering, I see her angst, I remain non-intrusive.
And one lady from Gertrude’s line, shifting through rites, flying through spaces, if only the message.
Those senses, with aromas, aside a loud cauldron, and God might drink.
Was it us, a miracle, bled dry, love for an olden comrade.
Can’t explore wilderness; can’t sing what’s unsung.
