You leave the doors open in a funeral home in the summer
The wind will swing them open regardless of their inanimate stature
The dead need no invitation to their own gathering
And afterall, you might as well let them cool your burning skin
Fall, is quiet–but the crunch of leaves are devastating
Bones creaking, a young soul lowered into the ground
Far from reach of any halloween party invitation
The bullet, still whistling against her spine. I can hear it, in the wind somewhere.
January, it makes sense that everything would die in the cold of a new beginning
Making space, I would call it, for the new arrivals
Frozen arms, in sleeveless dresses, feeling pointless in the wake of a sleeping body
Snow is the blanket of time, laying to rest all that must be awoken in spring
Nothing dies in the spring.
I refuse to believe it.
The flowers are not ready to be picked, and rounded into empty centerpieces
Nothing can die in the spring.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 11:03 AM UTC
You leave the doors open in a funeral home in the summer
The wind will swing them open regardless of their inanimate stature
The dead need no invitation to their own gathering
And afterall, you might as well let them cool your burning skin
Fall, is quiet–but the crunch of leaves are devastating
Bones creaking, a young soul lowered into the ground
Far from reach of any halloween party invitation
The bullet, still whistling against her spine. I can hear it, in the wind somewhere.
January, it makes sense that everything would die in the cold of a new beginning
Making space, I would call it, for the new arrivals
Frozen arms, in sleeveless dresses, feeling pointless in the wake of a sleeping body
Snow is the blanket of time, laying to rest all that must be awoken in spring
Nothing dies in the spring.
I refuse to believe it.
The flowers are not ready to be picked, and rounded into empty centerpieces
Nothing can die in the spring.
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