Crater
The depression in my chest—a desolate field
inhabits shallow breaths and hollow bones,
discarded sentiments of hope.
This cavity, once a blooming garden,
is a withering wasteland.
Iris buds cower
in the face of the
scorching sun.
This space
craters me.
I must be the one
to nurture the sprouts
back to good health,
so that they will one day
be able to bloom and share
their beauty with the rest of the world.
Tags: