Flowers are beautiful,
Until they grow mold.
No more does their fresh scent linger,
Throughout our homes.
Withered and decaying,
No longer do they roam.
They revert to the earth,
No blooms to be shown.
Calla lily, daisy, dahlia,
All on their own.
Hoping, praying,
To discover the unknown.
Funerals are a hoax,
Even to the old crone.
She saw what they didn’t,
No more seeds to be sown.
Girl buried alive beneath a mountain of coats. Put to rest upon hand-embroidered fabric. It rubs her skin raw. The chandelier clinks its...
The paint-chipped windowpane in which car brake lights and street lamps are shown. Each car stopping for the stop light, and then...
As Free As a Bell Collared Cat They lie lazily in the bright sun shine, Never fearing for the inevitable. Existential dread is not...
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