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Mar 2016
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


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
Emma Elisabeth Wood
Written by
Emma Elisabeth Wood  F/UK
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