As the last of the flowers have withered,
And the guests have washed their clothes,
The cemetery has new bodies to entomb,
I still feel your presence very close.
For every waking morning without you on our side,
Demands a tough facade for every dusk and dawn,
With responsibilities piling our plates,
I still hear your voice guiding us on.
At times where people have seem to forget,
And your space at the table has been quietly replaced,
Things and clothes packed neatly into boxes,
I still recall the warmth of your embrace.
For the world that we know will continue to revolve,
With the sun, the moon, and its skies ever so blue,
Your memory lives on in every piece of me;
I will choose to remember every last piece of you.
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
As the last of the flowers have withered,
And the guests have washed their clothes,
The cemetery has new bodies to entomb,
I still feel your presence very close.
For every waking morning without you on our side,
Demands a tough facade for every dusk and dawn,
With responsibilities piling our plates,
I still hear your voice guiding us on.
At times where people have seem to forget,
And your space at the table has been quietly replaced,
Things and clothes packed neatly into boxes,
I still recall the warmth of your embrace.
For the world that we know will continue to revolve,
With the sun, the moon, and its skies ever so blue,
Your memory lives on in every piece of me;
I will choose to remember every last piece of you.
A poem about grief and memory.
