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Flowers Are for Funerals MAG
Like survivors of the plague, we raced through the woods,
Etching our lives away into the trees.
Our hair sprinkled with stardust,
We laughed until our laughter turned to sobs and we
Wept rivers into the soil.
The leaves fell as we shook in each other’s arms,
While somewhere in the distance, an owl gave its mourning cry
And the wind swayed the trees in a symphony of sighs.
With a shudder I collapsed onto the ground.
You gathered the flowers from where I lay,
Tore up the petals and cast them away.
In a voice laden with sleep you said, “Flowers are for funerals.”
You sank to the ground and lay down beside me, the moonbeams scattered around us.
Fingers entwined, we gazed up at the stars and lost ourselves
In the valleys of the moon and the shadows that played across them.
But the fire was dying now,
And we felt the weariness
Tugging at our bones like the ocean current.
Death’s little sister laid her fingers on our eyelids and
Gradually the world began to darken
Until only the stars remained,
Burned into my vision like tiny dots of static forever