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.
Comments
the hyphen between birth and death.
Such an astounding image, Susie. Congrats on being chosen for publication.
Hank
The first line brought so many images to my head. And the last line... wow!