(For Joe Ushie) When the walls of the heart crack, blood gushes into its crevices; sweet melodies die before our lips unwrap them, and words wind into whips wrapping souls in sorrow. In moments like this, flood cannot quench our thirst and rain only fuels a bushfire. Words trip and fall in our throats and voices become still, harbouring dead words trapped in uncertainties. To some, death remains a trance: a relentless season of seasons— always visiting, in rain or shine to erode our earth of blooms or to scorch & dry our tongues like drought. She creeps in, silently, fragments our tranquillity and leaves broken pieces words cannot mend.