We see tombs made of stone in a golden light;
blessed by starlight, cradled by the night;
Ignoring shadows in the cracks and the flowers' wilting plight,
and insist the life they lived be glorified.
But take time to imagine their living selves
beyond legacy, beyond the trophies in their dusty shelves;
clumps of hair still left on their bathroom sinks,
and the scent of sadness they mended with bitter drinks.
We are all pieces of a puzzle aching to be whole;
dead or alive, somewhat uncertain lost souls.
What we forget is that beneath the grass were once people too,
and that they're probably better friends with the monsters you thought you knew.
We'd all like to carry a basket of daisies,
but somehow end up with a patch of weeds.
We're all the same wingless spirits when we're alone;
Found, maybe we can live like how we view the tombs made of stone.
