5 hours ago
Tombstone
I still come here to this graveyard,
and scribble on the tombstones for you,
till they’re rune stones for you.
In this corner, flowers never bloom
and maggots feast upon death cap mushrooms
while I read my deathless poems of doom and gloom.
The dead who once had happy memories
now cry at my poems of tender regret
and wish to die again, become fireflies,
or do anything to help them quite forget
my three score and more poems, not one or two,
about your picture, English Rose, boo hoo.
And though the stars enraged may glimmer,
I’ll read more heartfelt poetry for you
from a chophouse where the choicest verses simmer
about a love that said “you’ll never do”.
And I shall be a grave digger afterwards,
searching the spot where where I can bury you
to be captive audience for my heap of words
that friends say read better than Nancy Drew,
more heartfelt than Heathcliff, Kate Bush’s sadness,
so that I don’t jump a cliff for you.
I'll never truly understand this madness
about roses and the flower industry
but I’ll wander back here with gladness
at being able to read more poetry
and leave a rose for you, who thinks
she’s free to come and go. It stinks.
I still come here to this graveyard,
and scribble on the tombstones for you,
till they’re rune stones for you.
In this corner, flowers never bloom
and maggots feast upon death cap mushrooms
while I read my deathless poems of doom and gloom.
The dead who once had happy memories
now cry at my poems of tender regret
and wish to die again, become fireflies,
or do anything to help them quite forget
my three score and more poems, not one or two,
about your picture, English Rose, boo hoo.
And though the stars enraged may glimmer,
I’ll read more heartfelt poetry for you
from a chophouse where the choicest verses simmer
about a love that said “you’ll never do”.
And I shall be a grave digger afterwards,
searching the spot where where I can bury you
to be captive audience for my heap of words
that friends say read better than Nancy Drew,
more heartfelt than Heathcliff, Kate Bush’s sadness,
so that I don’t jump a cliff for you.
I'll never truly understand this madness
about roses and the flower industry
but I’ll wander back here with gladness
at being able to read more poetry
and leave a rose for you, who thinks
she’s free to come and go. It stinks.