Brooding

Alone she sat,
Alone she thought,
Of happier times
She used to know ...

Mourning

You are dead to me
A stone cold corpse
Beneath the earth

Your honeyed words
So sweet in their insincerity
Do not reach me now
Buried beneath 30 feet of dirt
60 layers of silence

Yet here I stand at your grave
In mourning for a statue
Breathtaking but selfish
Those actions meaning more
Than honeyed words could convey

I was the worm that now
Crawls through your flesh.
I was to you a trifle
You were to me my heart

I mourn as the worms
Pick at your skin.
I struggle to restore to my life
Through the void you left.

I wish the grave were empty
Although I placed you there
With my own two hands

Stripping you of your life as you did me

I live and you remain dead

Remember

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.