Bright, pretty flowers adorning grey stone,
Life sits in an urn, rooted above death.
Decay, shrouded in dirt – petals bring calm,
In the turmoil of actuality.
Speak at the stone when you feel all alone;
Did you get an answer? No, he is dead.
If the petals had mouths they’d tell you so.
Roses and violets and chrysanthemum,
Can’t speak for him but can soak up the sun,
Until one day when you find them wilted.
They too were cloaked in a body of death.