Flowers on the hill, flowers on my grave, Tall grass, thistles, dead leaves and creeping vines Don't leave numbers or names but do engrave Their story on stones glaciers left behind. Time is a stearn and officious proctor Allowing brief moments, a look, a kiss, But not permanence, that's what death is for, The Reaper's shining blade that cannot miss. The soul is a whisper within a dream Filtered through stained glass, painted on ceilings, Illuminating ourselves like sun beams, A welder's arc of passion and feelings.
Jul 12, 2008
Jul 10, 2016