Beneath My Grave
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Flower that withers during winter,
Cold breeze humming for warm hugs.
And my tears won't be bitter,
If my love just died for an ace of clubs.
I once decorated my own grave,
So that I wouldn't wander.
As a spirit longing for what he once craved,
You create a fire behind my border.
I dug my own grave just to hold on.
Why do I even try? Why do I draw a line?
I don't feel like home when it starts to dawn.
My soul declines to accept the divine.
Promise me to live forever but live with another.
You live with others, disregarding my existence.
I'm now afraid to show my faded color.
Don't forget the memories, more distant.
Lifeless for such a bright day,
See me off to a bridge beneath my grave.
Regrets? Too late, but they will find a way.
I'll let you go—once my fave.
YOU ARE READING
Cornelia Street
PoetryThrough sonnets inspired by Shakespeare, I finally reveal the intimate secrets I've kept hidden for so long, even though I'm afraid no one will hear them. They capture the anguish of unspoken emotions I've never been able to say out loud, hoping for...
