The Flowers at My Grave

A Rhyming Poem

The flowers at my grave, will they be blue or cold and ashen as my dying day? I hear dirges of decay sung by truth, a lingering passion fraught with dismay.

In another time and another place, I’d be no stranger to the rising sun, like a sparrow that flies through open space — like the last arrow from a war I’ve won.

Oh, but the grave, the unforgiving shame, consumes my dreams and leaves my hope at bay, am I just a desolate heart to maim? Another bird to strike without delay?

But I refuse to wait and waste away, my soul will not wither beneath the grave.