All that we are; I buried them
Under the Smoky Mountain pile of the past
All that we are—
The flowerpot stationary holder you gave me
Riddled with fake flouncing flowers,
The Sterling greeting cards
Inking irksome lies.
It’s utter sublimation
That you should be expelled through verse,
There’s a wild hope,
Hope hoping for a purpose
For memories sour and deep.