I buried a few words in my garden,
And there lay a half-naked poem,
Breathing heavy with eyes in quiet despair,
It thus spoke in soft whispers;
"Why do you bury me underneath so many words?
My eyes are tired, my heart cannot hide,
And you hug your soul with my soil,
The flowers that you lay every Friday,
Bury me further, in deep disarray,
And in my heavy burdens,
You curtain your dark suns.
I lay still, for weeks, alone,
Until you revisit,
To make me more alone.
Do you really need so many words,
To grave me a permanent world?
Dress me up, bury me deep,
Sing a song or write for me,
But, once the moon in your eyes sets in the west,
Return not,
Mourn not,
Remember me not,
It's not your words that are read,
It's an old half-naked poem that's dead."
RIP