Poetry

A sorrow breeds gently, delicately like the blooming of a funeral flower, giving in to its passing in memoriam for the life of another. Tender youth celebrating itself in the glory of loss.. withering away on forgotten caskets. No morning dew settles on their papery carcass.. nubile tendrils do not string themselves along their maimed stalks. The celebration of loss becomes loss; there remains no significant difference. In the vunerable hours of transition, when no one else is ready, when grief hangs in the air carrying the raw unscented scent off death.. funeral flowers like sacred maidens are picked as symbols of sacrifice. Veiled and embalmed, laid beside.. they become part of the dead. Their living essences form a continuum latching on to the unpreservable. The symbol becomes real in the purging of the loss that was real.. all grief fades away in the grotesque death stench of funeral flowers. The steaming grinding wrath of unconsoled victimhood, writhing at the sight of unfeeling betrayals. Nothing is lost for those that do not die, death is paid for with death, nothing less.