Flowers for the Living
Poetry for the deceased.
The day is born. Her eyes look dry. Death has come to takes us all. “Wake up my love,” no wistful smiles. Their noisy lust is empty now. She has no choice, it’s not her time. Turn off the lights. Forever black. It is unknown to die alone. All secrets gone, no more return. The day is born. She doesn’t smile. Her husband’s gone, forever.
—Written the morning my neighbour’s husband died from a heart attack.