Lacrimosa III

III: the unsaid

Daily in the mornings
Our gazes fall as a glacier,
Suffocating under pooling thoughts
For all that we are,
neatly tied down, wrapped up
In lambskins.

And here in our Friday afternoons,
Our gazes fall as ashes,
Suffocating all our pooling thoughts
Of all that we are,
Things neatly tied, wrapped together
In lambskins.