Ficly

The Grass of The Grave

You fled
Right about
Where you bled out
Dead with doubt

You said a line of lies
I didn’t
Remember
There was the glint
Of a red ember
Fire in your eyes

Now I realize
They were
Unsure

Blinking blank
Like fireflies
As the sinking feeling sank
In the same demise
The flame dies

This silence compliments
Attempts
At some thinking

It teems
With dreams
And seems to come linking
With the elements
Of remembrance
As each room emerges
With trigger finger urges
On weapons of non-sense;
Guns to the head of common-sense’s
Responses

You know
I can still smell the remnants
Of your offensive inelegance
Though
The most indelicate
Of sentences
Tends to shun
What is tender—
Never to mention
That the senses
Flow like the rivers run
Continuous
Endless
Like love without fences,
Like veins are entrenched in us
And such as that thought
I cannot overcome

My furious innocence
Occurs hurried
In each instant
Like the colors
On turned pages
Burned beige to black
To charcoal flecks
That the soul
In the grass
Of the grave collects

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