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A Tree That Crumples
I am deceased;
I perished that day.
Nothing is left of me,
I left myself behind.
There is a new somebody
alive in the husk
that once belonged to me
and uses cartilage and skull.
In death a torment would have ended
that carries on now
interminably.
No flowers on my shrine.
The berth where I was found
no place of pilgrimage.
A tree that crumples
in sorrow.
Its green petals encompass
the last of my claret,
spilt in love
for those who loved me.
I bend down, grasp
this dry red earth.
I dig with feeble fingers
a small hole.
More I do not need.
Sprinkle some water,
and hope one flower
will one day bloom.
****
February 23, 2017
© Darren White
Copyright ©
Darren White
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