He lived his eighty years well,
they said
he often knotted his wrinkled hands around the smooth fleshed hands of his grandchildren
still, his heart gave out eventually,
swollen with love
I went to his funeral, a bystander,
an intruder of grief
I take flowers to his grave,
purple tulips with petals
that eat up rain clouds
and sunlight like a ****
taking nourishment from
the red and white roses that
neighbour them
photosynthesis,
I recall the word,
from chemistry classes
an age ago
I never knew him, though
I got his name from a newspaper obituary I ideally flicked through at 4am
I had never known old age, you see
and it seemed beautiful to me
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
He lived his eighty years well,
they said
he often knotted his wrinkled hands around the smooth fleshed hands of his grandchildren
still, his heart gave out eventually,
swollen with love
I went to his funeral, a bystander,
an intruder of grief
I take flowers to his grave,
purple tulips with petals
that eat up rain clouds
and sunlight like a ****
taking nourishment from
the red and white roses that
neighbour them
photosynthesis,
I recall the word,
from chemistry classes
an age ago
I never knew him, though
I got his name from a newspaper obituary I ideally flicked through at 4am
I had never known old age, you see
and it seemed beautiful to me
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