It wasn’t until the middle

of morning coffee, awakening,

I learned of it’s arrival.

On the drumming bus of sleep,

and mangled dreams the meaning

budded, bloomed, and withered

leaving broken stem,

memory, and lingering aroma.

Gathering strewn petals greedily

along the path, I breathe

bits of poems, answers, lies.

All equal, and

just as easily left behind.