Tiny flower all alone, grows before an unmarked stone. Fallen soldier with no name, because of this no one came.

Tiny flower how you’ve grown, spread before this unmarked stone. Fallen pedals in lieu of tears, each one denotes a passing year.

Tiny flowers surround this stone, the only spot that you have grown. People stop to ponder why, overwhelmed by grief they begin to cry.

Tiny flower thanks to you, this stone is marked with the sight of you. Fallen soldier rest in peace, for your forgotten years have finally ceased.

Peeking in, sitting by the half dug hole in the ground
Finding worms in the sand as if a can got open
I stare into the nothingness of this roots like labyrinth
Shovel resting on the side nudges to be put to use
Wait, hold on a little, while I decide to plant a seed or dig a grave
It would be a birth nonetheless, only followed by death

I have seen them,
lost among the rows of Marble and Granite
quietly whispering conversations
left too late in life

tears flooding from ducts
that spontaneously leak with sorrow
emotion they have no control of
bursting from deep within

they lay flowers
and sometimes trinkets, imagining
somewhere
the person they are talking to
is watching over them

last weekend it was my turn
for the first time, laying my offering of roses
though I didn't know what to say
except,
"Happy birthday Mum"

a river bed lies profoundly dry

out in the remote west

showing no visible signs

of any trickle's zest


each day bringing the same

emptiness of refrain

thirsty river banks are feeling

such a sustained pain


the wanted gift of moisture

being absent far too long

a river's course slowly dying

to feel a dampness of song


soon the summer's scorch shall

be again upon the river's trace

in its despairing hour it will beg

for rain's life giving grace

Step, yes step – nay, dance -
Upon my grave
But do not wallow, whine or whimper
Nor in lamentations rave.
I am gone; I am past;
Into a quiet place at last.
The world is warm and bright
Though I lie beneath the grass.
Pick flowers, if you must
But do not leave them here for me.
Bring them home
To be loved
By friends and family.

She pulls me out of town with a bouquet of lilies
holding me tight, but soft, she talks about valleys of freedom.
She begs me to visit a country full of angel statues.
She's so confusing but sweet somehow.

The way she talks about revolution makes you want to burn bridges
and you know you would do it if She let your hand.
You would have fight bats and demons
but she just couldn't stop keeping you in touch.

She's talking and talking and talking,
you're not tired.
You're trying to compliment her through your laugh.
She doesn't let you speak.

Then she speaks out about how good you are,
how proud your children will be.
You can't help but dream of a life with her.
She looks in the sky and smile.

She stops in front of a river.
The water is so clean.
Birds are dancing above it
making love to your dreams.

Now it's the time to tell her how you love it when she sleeps,
how you're drowning for a kiss,
how you would do anything to make her yours to be.
She sees deep into your eyes.

She gets so quiet.
You're about to hug her
tell her you're not comfortable with her silence;
she left your hand.

Whispering, she tells you she's dying.
Her calm tone doesn't change a bit.
You, you realize that the sun burns.
She monologues that it was burning for so long.

I'm standing here looking for the joke.
She begs me to take care of her dog.
You're afraid to tell the little one, that mama's not coming home.

She demands only lilies in her grave,
white lilies of hope,
the opposite
of her black soul.

The river is so ***** and dull.
The storm that came within killed the nightingales,
destroyed nature's melodies,
rocks and branches like spears bloked the flow of the water
demanding for pure blood.

Wolves stand all around the river
crying their lives out,
the trees in the area scream and shout.
Someone could said they're enjoying the chaos.

The lilies fell from her tiny hands.
Silence.