like fallen flowers, i am
weary under the subtle noise of a rushing, babbling brook;
a death, quietly scenic
as i go back to dust.
i left my body rotting in a prairie paradise,
here it decays to gray
under the bruised indigo sky.
a ghost writes her poem in silence, in small, made-up synapses,
and the wind sweeps it away.
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 7:34 AM UTC
like fallen flowers, i am
weary under the subtle noise of a rushing, babbling brook;
a death, quietly scenic
as i go back to dust.
i left my body rotting in a prairie paradise,
here it decays to gray
under the bruised indigo sky.
a ghost writes her poem in silence, in small, made-up synapses,
and the wind sweeps it away.
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