My last days were melted wax lips and roses.
Eyes swam in water pools around my head
until goodbyes drowned at my feet.
I always dreamed of pretty boxes
where secrets slept on satin whispers,
but in this wooden box the only sound
I hear is the skull song of flies.
Life is moments written on
the hyphen between birth and death.
The ink wasn’t even dry when
my ending was chiseled in granite.
If I could reach through six feet of clay,
I would dance with the bright colors
November places upon my breast.
©Susie Clevenger 2015
This poem appeared in Yellow Chair Review's Horror Issue, October 2015.