Costumes speak of brown days

tinged with a burnt smell.

Smoldering remnants of internal memory's

familiar beauty

no longer holding value of sacrifice.

Sitting on the root of a tree

supported by flowers



whose tendrils emerge

from cavernous depths

twisted with gnarled beauty

burnished to rich patterns of voice

mimicking beliefs held in costume

the old is reverently formed

as a reminder

Gently touched

acknowledged for what it was

without which

the face of what is

could not be revealed