You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘death’ category.


Censorship.


I had a garden

Now I am the censor of my flowers

I went around with scissors cutting all the dried leaves

Flowers that did not bloom

Or the ones who insisted on drooping

And took with them the colors that should have stayed

In this mismatched garden

Hay color

That crackles in my steps

The sound of dry

I go on with sharp scissors

For there is no place for quitting flowers

It’s important to free their souls from their

Dead roots…


The color of mourning

Is not black

It’s pale

Dry lips – twisted in sadness

Trembling hands

Cannot hold the pain

The color of mourning                                  

Dresses the soul

Of those who stay


Gray

The statues sit quiet

And observe the cemetery

Frozen – no pain, no feeling

Just gray

Cement on my death

On my mourning

Angels with hard wings

Saints, Jesus, and God

Watching over the fence

Deciding who goes or stays

Final and concrete

Unlike this garden of statues

Won’t go anywhere

Will stay and watch over the souls

Of the people who built them

Who come and cry

And death decorate

With real flowers

Or plastic ones

But the color is always

Gray…