November 29, 2009
More by this author
We will all wilt like week-old roses

Given with apology or with love

Given in mourning or in celebration

We will still wilt

And our petals will shrivel up

And we lose our color and beauty we once had

And when im gone

Whos going to remember me in a centuries time?

Buried only eight feet under where people continue to live

And where moss grows thick and dark on a gray old tombstone

Where my printed name is barely visible and spelled wrong

Where the stone has been worn and cracked by time

And I'll be there just a short eight feet below

And whose going to remember me?

Whose going to remember the sunsets I watched on the front porch?

The secrets I never told and the love I gave to a man…?

What I saw in the clouds that day in the 4th grade…?

Those nights I cried and thought I wouldn't wake with the suns rise…?

And how I sang with angels and danced with wolves?

Whos going to remember the day I sat in the kitchen

Looking at a vase of week-old roses in the windowsill

With the sun streaming through the clouded water

And thoughts of life streaming through my head.

Thoughts about being remembered.

Thoughts about wilting like a week-old rose.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback