A florist stands guard at the overgrown garden of broken stone teeth.
Where a million flakes of silver and white covers neatly laid out boxes of bones.
Small, separated audiences quietly chatting to themselves, unaware that no one can hear.
Where their cold grey words drip from frozen blue lips on a falling mist of old sorrow.
The trees once in full bloom appear dead, reflecting all life around.
Where the butterflies and ladybirds used to play, just as the bones in the boxes did yesterday.
Those in attendance file out one by one. They peer left and then right, realising the flower lady has gone.
And it's on their way home as the time ticks on by, the realisation that
one day,
they too,
must die.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 4:41 AM UTC
A florist stands guard at the overgrown garden of broken stone teeth.
Where a million flakes of silver and white covers neatly laid out boxes of bones.
Small, separated audiences quietly chatting to themselves, unaware that no one can hear.
Where their cold grey words drip from frozen blue lips on a falling mist of old sorrow.
The trees once in full bloom appear dead, reflecting all life around.
Where the butterflies and ladybirds used to play, just as the bones in the boxes did yesterday.
Those in attendance file out one by one. They peer left and then right, realising the flower lady has gone.
And it's on their way home as the time ticks on by, the realisation that
one day,
they too,
must die.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Notes of Mortality.
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