Isn't it weird?
We find death beautiful.

The slow rotting of the leaves in the fall,
We reward old age among the elders in society.

Yet we fear death,
We fear the outcome; what will happen.

Sometimes we are annoyed with death,
at least among plant life.

We rake up the leaves,
we love them until they coat our yards,
becoming a burden.

With dead flowers,
sometimes people keep them.
Sometimes.

Other times they are thrown away,
a carcas of a beautiful life.

I wanted
to write you
a love poem;
but I couldn't
think of any
cliches.

I want to
say that your
eyes were
the colour
of oceans
or sea glass
or- or-
sunshine
going through
a glass of
whiskey

Something pretty
something beautiful
something to
make you
feel loved

But that
was when
I realized
your eyes
are not beautiful
for their colour
or shape;
they are magnificent
because
they
are
yours.

So here
is your love poem
and I'm sorry
it's short
but I've
run out
of words
because the inventor
of this tongue
could not
perceive
you.