These words do not always come
Sometimes they do not even appear
But they are there
Buried in the subconscious
Colour is easy to write about
'Roses are pretty
And violets are blue
The stars look lovely too'
But what is fading is ignored
Death is sad
And wilted roses turn grey
Soon enough they will all be thrown away
Just like everything else
We will all be discarded
These words
These thoughts
Which are buried so deep
Will be taken to our graves