Hearts
in a hive,
those
stinging bites
once
made of flame
aged
down to stone,
anew—in
part—
enough
of you—
returns—
every
second’s an hour—
every
hour, days
Hearts
in a swarm
That
tingling bliss
Sensation,
bleeds plush again
With
Each nibble, the more you leave,
happy
gravesites—artifacts—
of
what used to be—intact
and
no longer can the cold of stone,
affect
the warmth inside.
happy gravesides seem like an oxymoron, but i know many that make them monuments to pain, so i think if we can let them be places of sweet rememberance it would be a better way to go...
ReplyDeleteThis is really touching Fred. I read the gravesites metaphorically, like touchstones or memories.
ReplyDeleteHappy gravesites are pretty grave indeed, as they can bring comfort but a lot of time they bring remembrance and sometimes that isn't always a good thing if people get lost or stuck in the past. But then if one remembers for happiness sake and can move on, they can be happy indeed.
ReplyDelete