fortunate are the dead, that they don't believe the lies of the living- else, the graveyards too may fill, with money and malice.
Tag: #poem
Snow-
not that I've seen her before; I imagine she's wet, amorphous and cold; like an elusive aunt, we hear so much about, she may ultimately disappoint.
We, the dying
We scrape, we clean but it never seems to abate, the dirt under our fingernails collected from our graves. We, the continually dying, escape but where shall we go, without our headstones in tow. We, at apogee are ready to flee the orbit, yet doomed to repeat a dying habit.
