Where whispers descend

Magdalenean cherry-blossom,
primrose ghost dream-catcher
            haunts beneath your feet
blistered by railway-tracks &
            heavy flashlights’
            bandages of bondage.
Your scarlet bodegas
wrap around phosphoric years,
            stars & nightingales
            at your waist.
“Sorry” doesn’t suffice for scars,
            doesn’t justify celestial-oak tears
            mourning your memory.
Heaven’s mighty altar won’t cease
            whispering thistles.
Your very bridge, an inkblot path.