Some terrible things in my life have resulted in some black poetry...please forgive me while I try to work it out

Brenda, at the Sunday Whirl sent along this week's words.While I know they can be tumbled in any way, my mind is black and all I can write is black.You see my dear friends, there’s been too much lately. Too much pressure, too much heartache, too much jet-lag and now, if you can believe it, my precious mini, my birthday present, a labour of love and restoration over these last 3 years, has been stolen in the most horrible, underhanded, threat-of-violence way.Please forgive me while I get my black mood out in my little public forum.In the end, I know that my family and the people I love are healthy and love each other and that I’m a lucky girl to have wonderful friends who love and support me. And I know those are the most important things in the world.dazed, incense, ambivalence, empties, holy, scurriesbreathing, fear, flaps, prayers, water, tenderness (Couldn't manage "flaps")The trees are dazed.They stand at the bottom of the garden weeping tears of blood. Their soft maple incense, their whispery, windy tenderness is silenced; their branches hung with tattered lace.The tears drain into the ground and mix with water causing the ground’s sorrow to rise in a billowing cloud of mist in which the breathing of the drowning sun is stilled and silenced.So are my prayers.Black birds fly to me carrying invisible messages of violence and fear. I wonder who you are who sent them and what they have to say.The cold of this evening of tattered branches and black birds holds me in its ambivalence and prevents me from stretching my hands to you.There is no tenderness in my hands.My words dissolve in the mist along with the last of the light.But whether you hear them or not, my words will creep into your mind and tend your memory of me till I am there to balance it on the tip of my finger and send it spinning into space.A pale star in orbit round your head.Empties your inhibitions, entices with what you hold holy, and scurries over your skin like a featherweight finger or the tip of a tongue. Then silently draws a knife from its velvet sheath and plunges it into your heart.