Dead Flowers on the Wall
It's whats dead and matters,Flowers on the wall,
Buried face down, Not sure I'm dead,
Not sure I want to know,
Dead flowers on a grave,
Slowly creep onto a wall,
Not sure who's, Maybe mine,
Dead flowers lie upon my chest,
The walls all white bloom best at night,
Jackets too tight, To many straps test my might,
If I were loose, These flowers I'd pick,
When I scream they would cover my nest,
The flowers fall to the floor,
Brown and dead, Just like the rest,
And just before they hit, They disappear,
But I know they are hear, they rustle and twitch,
Dead flowers on the walls,
For only me to see,
God looks at me from his window,
No sun shines on me............
Richard E. Cartledge PHOENIX (c)
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