The love inside will always burn brightly
even for the weed that has replaced the blooming flower
as it creeps up against the wall tightly,
for even the sickly green of knot weed has illuminating power.
The adoration of things turned sour,
the memory of the good that came before,
that hide in reflection as they cower
before the boom and bust of relationship law.
Yet I hold the memory of you dearly,
I cradle it like a child, in innocent wonder
and whisper, cajole it to stay alive, to breathe.
For in that breathe, flames spark and burn merely
for us to pluck out a semblance of good, to plunder
and ravage and destroy all we believe.
Ian D. Hall 2016