The death of a child
Cannot be portrayed into words
But only understood
By the deepest trenches of the heart
The moon hung its head low in the night sky
A perfect circle to personify infinity
Whether it was the message of a spirit
Or a coincidental language of the planets
We will never know
Something tugged on my spine
To turn around, and meet the eyes of a ghost
A mirror, I thought
For it was the ghost that I saw in my eyes
During my personal ice-age
A stranger alone, but
Not as strange as the loneliness
Of the aftermath of death
Do I dare speak?
To harvest hidden emotions of the past?
I spoke meek and astutely
Then stepped out of my skin
To show him my crooked spine
Because rotted bones and knotted arteries
Speak for themselves
He understood that I apprehended
That a grave for one is a grave for two
One for their body, and one for your heart
A weeping embrace in place
Of lost words stolen by mortality
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 1:38 PM UTC
The death of a child
Cannot be portrayed into words
But only understood
By the deepest trenches of the heart
The moon hung its head low in the night sky
A perfect circle to personify infinity
Whether it was the message of a spirit
Or a coincidental language of the planets
We will never know
Something tugged on my spine
To turn around, and meet the eyes of a ghost
A mirror, I thought
For it was the ghost that I saw in my eyes
During my personal ice-age
A stranger alone, but
Not as strange as the loneliness
Of the aftermath of death
Do I dare speak?
To harvest hidden emotions of the past?
I spoke meek and astutely
Then stepped out of my skin
To show him my crooked spine
Because rotted bones and knotted arteries
Speak for themselves
He understood that I apprehended
That a grave for one is a grave for two
One for their body, and one for your heart
A weeping embrace in place
Of lost words stolen by mortality
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