I lost M in the middle years,
When I left her for beautiful people.
One could never hear her silence in the front row,
She never left the chair against the window.
I lost M in the crowds,
When her species had betrayed her.
I lost M in the clouds,
Everyday her city smothered her.
I lost M in the battlefield,
For she was never a soldier.
While the monsters charged with knives and swords,
She mumbled to the flowers and thanked her Lord.
Postcards from Ice and mountains,
Arrived like rose petals at my door.
Those days and dreams were haunted by her,
Who was more alive than I ever was.
M, leave this world,
You were never made for it.
“But my flowers are here” she’d say,
“And they wait for me.”
I showered her with her fellow flowers,
In the battlefield where I lost M.
Barren land which stinked of blood and war,
Now blooms with daffodils.
Hers’ is a museum of a million things,
With walls covered in blue lights.
Memories of her, and her,
Sequestered in plain sight.
2 Comments Add yours
quite a poem!
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