widowing reflections

this is not a revolution
it is only a series of thoughts
that have dug themselves into a solution
like the roots of yellow birches and forget-me-nots.

springing buds of passion and fury
that spiral to a rock bottom pit
because there purpose does not serve me
and here, still i sit.

waiting for the moment where i realize i am wrong
in my way of preaching louder
of what i believe is love in song
yet, still it has a trace of fading powder.

because your words do not revise
or more so, compromise
for the heart that sits without a ribcage near
it has been torn in every corner, not so soft and nearing worser

you are wilting my peace inside this hole.