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
hearts
creatures
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