There’s a cemetery in my mind, I can see my own grave.
It’s a cotton-cloud day; Filled by the warmth of an angry sun.
People pass by that grave.
They speak,
And turn to wilt under the heat of the horizon;
Speaking the scattered voice of death.
I can see fear churning in their hearts
As they build fences around what they say and believe in.
They build up walls around what they tell others.
Only certain things make it out
Onto the heated grass.
I write and hope—
To stand in this vision long enough to see a shadow emerge over my grave.
No flowers.
No spoken words.
Only a person;
Remembering…
Is it...okay?
Comments
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Slighty dark...but good nonetheless..
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