The Writers' Circle

Through the veil of spring I spied,
Inside its dainty dash I cried,
Waiting for the dragging tide,
To wash away these sins I hide. 

Cherry blossoms frame my door, 
The summertime is so obscure, 
For aching misery is my lure, 
Its gentle humming is the cure. 

The dying flowers make a stain, 
Upon my ever dying brain, 
He tells me the ground will gain,
But I refuse to hide my pain.

And with a floating grace I led, 
To the graves where he was dead,
I am so careful not to tread,
On those words I knew you said.