I have been there, you are not the first
and say that you like me, but sometimes it hurts
to have the sleeve up on the tongue
or was it heart, it just feels wrong
to leave when love is just a seed
and time fails hard to fill those needs.
but what's to heal? The weed has grown
on a fragile scion, too small to withhold
the damage of storms, and fire, and sores.
Idle garden, fallow field, voiceless song of mine
tender heart has been once more postponed for unknown time.