attempting cursive

lost in the flowers

the garden grew on a mountainous curve

of an angle only found by the measure of his words,

the branches would extended throughout the palms of 

his hands and his son would play under the bushes and plants;

they’d tangle in the wood and find themselves lost in the flowers-

everyday was spring; though, childhood, an hourglass.

unhappiness

my unhappiness will go away with a new beginning,

my new mind wil sprout flowers, in color

and when i wake up you and i were never in love.

lets start something new, we fail to let repetition save us.