Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Birthstones = gravestones
Carcass yard = graveyard
Flesh tomb = a body (alive or dead)
It is your childhood bestie on Facebook,
Yet just a tap away.
It's the sun shining from behind the clouds
On December mornings
While you work your *** off on your laptop
In bed in your 4-BHK apartment.
It is the soap bubble that bursts
Just with your one glance
Because memories are fragile.
They aren't made of hearts of stone
And kinetic sand.
They're made of soft toys
And fur animals.
Nostalgia is the balloon-seller you whizz by
At the traffic signal
It is the sweetness of strawberries
That falls drop by drop,
on your tongue,
That has forgotten to taste.
It is a subtle symphony that coffee plays
That only you can smell
It is the obedient smile that dances on your lips for a while
But fades away
As the smoke of dead habits take over.
It the closed window behind the curtains,
The forgotten post-its on the fridge,
The giggles trapped shut in between the pages of ******,
It is the withered rose on the tombstone
And the eulogy never spoken.
It is a teary-eyed laughter
It is happy faces
In a photo frame.
It is the dictionary in a sentence,
Not something that can fit into a stance.
even love, a faded meaning
the uneven skill; bludgeoning the compass
a longing, a thirst for fortress in the prodigal past
always seems to swim so shallow
an even meaning when roses die
a shadow walking ground, a skeleton in the earth
leaning on its symbiotic ecstasy;
frail and ephemeral dipped in a sea of ash
when paradise keel's over in sea
awake in this lucid dream
let loose of the pipe
lest you breath as love
a silent lips for astrologers, even a tombstone for gazers
blood streaming down the crown;
never to grow rose
love is the soil.
the shallow marker of death.
a block of stone that calls itself meaningful.
a pitiful rock that lays above the corpses of the long forgotten.
tombstones are a worthless waste of space,
only left because respect is desired long after death.
The green field I used to frolic and play
Now shrouded in darken clouds greyed
With soil planted with nothing but graves
Vine and stone tablets with epitaphs engraved
Goodbye. A word that haunts. Echos through the dark and paralyzes me with fear, enough to tremble and shake similar to the way a weak hand grasps for months, clutching onto life. When you leave, how do you suppose you hear me. I shout and scream into the cemetery of everything that once was. The lesson of a lifetime is say goodbye early. Say goodbye to the possibility of departure and leave before they leave first. Thats how you say goodbye to a ghost, in a way that will haunt them to their grave.
Written while wanting to reach out to someone who wants to hide.
tombstone lost the name,
wildly growing grass has the gain;
nature stakes more claim!
cover her apron,
warding evil eyes.
rules over bones, on
Day of the Dead.
at night gulping
nectar of rising sun
she spews spirits
possessed by her.
frozen candle flames,
under black moon.
The living crawl
to her altar
to the dark blue apron.
We danced among the tombstones
Verdant ground to kiss our feet
Her hand as cold as winter
My smile from beyond