The grapes haven't spoiled yet, but
will now never be tasted.
The cut flowers
still have some perplexing
life in them.
Hanging from a
tree branch, I find a message
written by a dead woman.
There's a bookmark
embedded between the
pages of a hardback, like
Excalibur lodged in
stone, and I
cannot pull it out.
It hurts to walk along
certain corridors,
past certain doors, with
no one behind them
calling to me.
The radio is tuned to Ghost FM,
and nobody with a pulse
gets airtime.
Digital photographs of
fading analogue memories.
Yet still small shoots persist
in breaking through this dark, cold dirt, and
inexplicably blossoming.
In ten days, six people I know and care about have died. Guess this is my way of processing that.