It seems so long
since last your voice
was heard
around this town;
this sleepy little burg
just ain't the same,
since they laid you
in the ground.
Your flowerbed's done
gone to seed;
your roses all
went wild;
The dog dug up
the bougainvillea
by the house.
Johnny's in
the jailhouse;
they caught him
haulin' shine.
And Bill's got himself
a wife.
Me, I really guess
I'm just the same,
dumb as a post and
fond of raisin' hell.
But look at me,
tearin' up talkin'
to a tomb-rock,
the setting sun a
mournful blaze.
But I can't help but
notice,
how the teardrops gleam
like candles on your grave.
Author notes
I hope you like it.
A contest entry
- FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE---titles contest by Rianna Bear.
525 points, ended June 13, 2008, 9 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
-
this was something different and yes, i did like it. i envision someone laying by the grave and talking to 'em like they can hear. you ended it perfectly and i loved the "how the teardrops gleam" part! thanks for entering
♥R
-
pretty awsome
does kinda remind me of the leanne rimes song though. cant remember the name of it but she is talking to a stone as well.
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