Til Vatnet og Æva

The memory of that person
Who wanted, who tried not to be,
Lies like latticework under you,

Something to stand on, so you don’t
Sink back into that same dark pond.
Does anyone ever fill it?

So many fallen make a floor
Of lost selves of yourself, old bones
That rise to the surface in drought

As the surface sinks back from them,
The mire exposing firm remnants
Of every one of you you lost.

It’s nice to feel them support you,
Your skeletons under the moss.