Bad Poetry Friday

Death’s Bleak Foreshadow (2/9/1998)

The whisper of wind

through the barren trees

reminds me of death

The shadow washed over me

in a dream last night

when I was taken away

to tomorrow

and happiness was sorrow

like flowers on my grave

the sweet scent of roses

washed the pain away

and I woke to sunlight

 

Notes: Creepy, no? I might have been a little depressed.

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