Written by Ida Grey
Never mind the dandelions.
Never mind the open fence.
We are here, on a bench
in a graveyard, looking
for ways to hate each other
into submission.
So we take turns
policing our wounds
in remembrance. It may be a comforting
practice, but no love ever comes from it.
And tomorrow,
when they find our bodies,
hollowed and intertwined,
victims of our own arms,
they will put us
in an unmarked grave,
and let the flowers grow freely
where we could not.
Text © Ida Grey
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Ah, just the spirit and words that are telling. Regards, Drager