An Everlasting Weed

A poem about split personalities & burying your dead: be it a lost friend or memories of the past.

Black days yield hail to black eyes,

drenched in the woman's summer skin,

we put her on a pedestal to share

what our creation came to be, only

for the masses to watch as hopes

and the visceral ground underneath 

give way to the weight of her 

greed--exposes her for the same

fiend with which she lays.

Washed up, sees her guilt

become a seed, an everlasting weed

for you to chop shears at when we're 

near and she struggles as it continues to sprout.

We don't intend to flatter her,

this hole is for a lost friend,

for the hassle of burying such things is not worth the cost--

where vacant spaces for her box lie near towering trees,

cut through miles of roots only to throw dirt on that

which has already been buried--

only for rainy days to seep through and

produce a foul stench,

memories of childish faces on a bench,

pictures, and videos with the intention to document--

but the crowds won't weep at your descent.

Author's Note

My turtle died.

Reviews

[E.V. Black]

Absolutely sad and a bit morbid too. Burying the past? Burying the dead? Quite a bit creepy there. Although, I didn't mind it one bit. I LOVE creepy stuff, and this made me shiver in my skin. I'm sure that probably wasn't the main intent, but that's the affect it had on me. I think it's a little confusing around the beginning about talking about burying the dead and the past. You should word it more clearer. I wouldn't have known what you were talking about without the author's note or your description right under the title.

Reading it the second time around, it's much easier to understand. I think it just needs to be absorbed into the psyche a bit. I really like how you ended it with that one phrase at the conclusion.