Life, After All

It’s a fatal flaw, and she weeps blood

of loss; tears so sweet, ants collect in

a wonderful passive line, they wait in

patience, for a drip drop drip; in moon

light night, a scared moment in wane,

a captive truncation, in valleys deep,




no bodies to speak of,

but the lasting hush, of breath and pyre,

struck down like thin walls, pale and

wanton, succumbing to motions, afar

she cries out, the village nearby, among

many who don’t hear; still the narrow

time breaks through, and the gilding

continues to paint the ground, a deep

red like no other, and the storm cleans

her face, and the brooding insects all

seek refuge, in their holes,



but time isn’t friends with man, so the

last moment isn’t recorded, and like

the day of her birth, she returns silent,

into the great mourning after, saccharin

sweet, her memory fades, and a tree

dots her death, for this is life after all.


~ by Shawn M. Young on February 17, 2017.

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