Wicked Wild Flowers
I cannot help but stop and look at the grave.
Does the beauty of death make you shiver?
Does it?
I cannot help but stop and look at wicked wildflowers.
Down, down, down into the irony of the wildflowers,
Gently they grow - upon the unrighteous, the irreversible, the final grave.
When I think of the wildflowers, I see an angered dead.
Now, growing brightly upon its final bed.
Gets me wondering if the wildflowers know their sin.
Of making death look beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
Honey Drops and Pen Stains
PoesiaTravesty, overcome by little else but life's muses; It's jokes. All of this is my original poetry, please do not steal
