Roses
Are sprouting
From the crevices
Of the
Skeleton’s
Cold, bony body.

The wings
Which flutter
From the butterflies
Dance round
Enclosed by
Its thin, fragile ribs.

Weeping
From strangers
Stifles evening air.
The bones
Laid hidden
For some twenty years.

They cry
For woman
Unknown to us all.
Disguised
To us all
In her final rest.

Dare not
The police
To disturb her corpse.
Detached,
At the edge
Of the crowd I stand.

There is
Death in this
Damp sanctuary,
Haven
Of beauty
It is no longer.

Death is
So ghastly,
Decay so putrid.
Yet the
Atrophy
Remains so lovely.

I left,
Unabashed,
With silent musing.
It was
There I thought
That hope still remains.

Life was
Still gleaming
From Death’s rotted cage
Leaving
Strands of dreams
For those still living.