Flatly lying
They closed your box,
And it was just another goodbye.
A paycheck, and enough sweat to fill your bloodless veins.
Flat photos tracing back to you
You were always trying capture the laughs
Of seven grandchildren
Once so bright
Now the flattest state of mind
Emptiness with no traces of life
But at least there is the raspberry garden
That keeps your memory alive.
A flat grave
Stolen for cancer
The flat scent of cigarettes in your diner,
Your eldest son is to blame
But even his money couldn't fix you,
Still it meant everything
To an Irish woman
With peppermint hands.
Flat and out of luck,
No four leaf clovers
Just ditch flowers and dirt
Resting on you.