On this path she walked down,
She found a wilting rose,
Alone in it's sorrows.
Once there stood names,
each containing a face she would never recognize,
A story her lips could never speak,
Unless she first asked.
These names were chairs,
waiting for someone to sit,
But their owners will never again visit them.
She found a wilting rose,
But once there were many,
Blooming Roses,
As red as the vibrant liquid that once filled these names,
Now empty words sitting on tongues unable to be whispered.
Bright White carnations,
Hoping for doorsteps to be walked on,
and the sweet sweet tune of, "I'm home"
To ring through the entrance,
Families would smoother their loved one,
Just for walking in the door.
But the wind pushes the flowers from their chairs,
To be trampled on the path.
She places them back in their seats,
As if she too believes the carnations lies.
The next day a name was removed,
An empty chair stood,
as if no one belonged there.
For who would dare remember a single name,
When a whole aisle stands before you?
Again she left the chairs to mourn their emptiness,
To forget their existence until the next time through.
But there were only flowers lining the grass where chairs once were,
As if the disappearance of a name reminded the others that they too would vanish,
And just like that,
The field was barren besides a single rose.
The snow turning to grass,
Winter to spring.
For the world moves on,
And names will go unspoken in time.
This rose will wither.