almost-a-dead-poet

[almost-a-dead-poet]

My Bouquet

A chamomile to give patience for a millenia,

An aster for variety and elegance

To have endurance and lasting affection, a zinnia,

A bird of paradise for magnificence.

A chrysanthemum for optimism,

Delphinium for a big heart,

Daffodils for the eternal life gained at my baptism,

Forget-me-nots so good memories and me shall not part.

Purple hyacinth for when I’m blue,

Lily of the valley for humility,

Heather lavender so wishes will come true,

Easter lilies for The Holy Mother Mary.

Roses for my grandmother,

Ranunculus for charm,

Snapdragon to be gracious to one another,

Queen Anne’s lace for a place without harm.

Poppies so sleep will be peaceful,

Statice for sympathetic feelings,

Hydrangea to show all for which I’m grateful,

Yarrow flowers to bring healing,

To show friendship, a freesia,

A gerbera for cheer,

That life may be sweet, a gardenia,

A penstemon to have no fear.

A lilac for when I was without blame,

A gladiolus for strength of character,

A peony to symbolize my repentant shame,

A morning glory for my birth in September.

An amaryllis for beauty and beyond,

A pink carnation for a mother’s love,

A yellow carnation for love that doesn’t respond,

And a flower of the Holy Spirit for God above.

[almost-a-dead-poet]

A Family Affair

A feigned love,

A field of foxglove.

A plan to run away,

A plan made to go astray.

A woman tricked,

A flower picked.

A woman in her grave,

A handsome knave.

A grieving mother,

A vengeful brother.

A sorrowful sister,

A plan that was sinister.

A second trap,

A sister putting on an act.

A plan for revenge,

A plan to bring a life to an end.

A single bullet,

A place where they met.

A brother in prison,

A knave who deserved what he was given.

[almost-a-dead-poet]

What Is This Noise?

What is this noise?

Thunder seems to fill my ears on a sunny day as the ground bursts before my eyes and those I know die on the dirt and wire,

Bleeding and starving in this cold inferno,

This freezing hellfire.

My once soft hands that were held by a kind mother,

And once guided and taught by a stern yet loving father now are red with the blood of friends and brown with mud that clings to calluses and infects cuts,

My skin is burned by the sun and marred by bruises.

Trapped,

I cannot move,

I am dying slowly and all I can hope for is a hot metal scrap in my heart to push me along,

To join the corpses of my brothers on the carts,

The carts that carry us home to our loving fathers and gentle mothers,

Who are told to have pride in our bravery and sacrifice,

But what pride is there to be had in the sorrow of a lost son who you will never again see smile,

Who you will never again kiss or hug,

Never see his bride and never see him in his children’s eyes,

How can they have pride in a son who has forsaken them for the cold mother earth and father time who eat his body in his grave?

Here I am,

Living in my tomb,

The ground forming walls around me,

Cold and silent,

As war rages and ravages the sky,

What is this noise?

The last thing I hear,

What is this noise?

A bullet?

A bomb?

My stomach roaring,

Begging to be fed?

A fire burning?

What is this noise?

Why do I hear it?

What is this noise that kills me?

It is the sound of every death.

I am every soldier lost in a trench or No Man’s Land,

Every son never again seen or held,

Every terrified man speaking his last words,

His last prayer,

Screaming his final scream,

I am a man lost to time,

And the noise I hear is the voice of death.

[almost-a-dead-poet]

Decayed

Flowers and trees burst from my ribcage,

My lungs and my breaths have become theirs.

My arms and legs no longer move,

They rest on soft ground as they disappear,

Taken by time and death.

My mind is gone,

My soul is all that remains, but it is not here, it is above.

My body remains below, unfeeling and cold,

Returning to dirt as roots encapsulate and restrain an unmoving prisoner,

A prisoner who doesn’t bother trying to escape.

My blood has dried and joined the soil that takes the place of my faded eyes,

Eyes that have lost color, sight, and life.

My eyes have become food for laurels, lilies, lavender, and ladybugs,

The ecosystem is become my ruler, my home,

My parents are rotted logs and green grass,

Poison ivy and wild berries are my brothers and sisters,

Moss and vines are my children.

Potatoes, mushrooms, maggots, carrots, weeds.

I am no longer me,

I am forgotten,

I am part of the earth,

I am decayed,

I am a garden.