To the graves, follow the roses
for the deceased, for the soul
to smile. yet it rots beneath
the mud, under the footsteps
of lives, or for lilies to
sprout sometime. Maybe for
a bug to sleep and dream
the dreams, once the dead,
wept blood and left behind.

She followed me to my grave,
to my dreams, calligraphed
on the gravestones, or
to the buried memories where,
innocent smiles unsmiled,
the head bowed to hide the
dripping tears, yet the lips,
shamed and exercised to smile.

The bug flew to her hair knot,
and pollinated her with
the shades of the dreams.
She is the painting to my
last alive grayscale dream.
Might she be the rose, that
will follow me to my verge.
Might she resurrect me and
lend me a hand. I wish
to smile and not sham. huh!
Dreams are mortal. love is not.
Might her love someday,
give my lips a reason,
to again painlessly smile...
Can I be happy please?