buried in the roots of the cherry blossom

the best parts of me
the hidden bits
by the greasy hands
of familial distress
are kept
in a burlap sack
buried beneath
the cherry blossom tree
on the onyx hill
in the center of
the necropolis
filled with all
the interred
lovelorn corpses
slamming angry fists
the cheap wooden boxes
in which
all affections
eventually end up
summarily dismissed
haphazardly into
with only
the plastic bouquets
by extinguished
eternal flames

buzzards hover
with long phallic necks
leering eyes
razor sharp beaks
always circling
waiting patiently
for one of
the interred
to raise a hand
to the blue gray clouds
in the lavender sky

when the mental labyrinth
the walls crumbling
to form a new
set of seven concentric circles
within this personal hell
the only rule
governing the chaos
is the hangman’s rope
in the blackened
gnarled limbs
of the cherry blossom tree

a gentle reminder
of the boy who died
deeply buried
the hermit crab shell
of infinite

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