I push you hard, down, far away from here,
past the chords and strings of my life.
I bury you deep
into another crevice, another niche in my being
Beating you down with
one hard stroke after another.

It is all a loose cover.
A thin layer of dry, white, manmade snow, a not-so-perfect wonder over
the Telltale soil that pulses below.

The outlet, the push, the beating, this feeble burial,
are nothing,
But a misshapen, awkward, dissatisfaction that
I can’t endure.

And so I push you,
into places meant for the dead;
However,
You may rise and see and breath,
And roll out, off the chords and strings, soaring free.
Then, you may be put to rest, calm and blissful
with the warm wind.