On the Subject of Being Forgotten

May 11, 2011
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Every day I see in my mind’s eye
the very end of the line
I see that gray slab of stone upright
a fresh mound of earth within sight
A name etched in that large flat rock
The bottom of my stomach drops
And a single white hand
Leaves behind a single white rose
Sheathed all in black
A glittering tear in the dark
I see the white rose
the gentle wind caresses and blows
The veils ruffle, revealing their face
the dresses and collars all lined with lace
Then I awaken, it’s only a dream
but it felt so real.

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