Is that you?

Looking at the gravestone, from unimaginable heights,

Shows less and less of the fight you put up to avoid turning out the light.

All those maybe's and mights,

Like an equation you just couldn't work out quite right.

Is that you?

I threw the question to the stone,

My fingers slowly glossing the golden lettering; still alone.

Is that... You? Cold bone and structure long since flown,

Your eyes, your laugh, the inches you'd grown,

All contained within a breif article,

Every particle of your being blown like dust in a gale,

All comes down to which was the prettiest stone for sale.

The grave that became the veil,

The hidden individual lost in winters' pale.

Apparently, this is all you were worth;

A black bag, a box, and length of hired dirt.

You were more than this, but this is all they gave you,

Nailed you down and in this slab of concrete contained you.

And some disrespectful cunt spray-painted "2K13" on the back of it.

◄ AND FEAR IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

Don't Get So Upset ►

Comments

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Harry O'Neill

Wed 27th Mar 2013 16:13


Joy,
And me...and you...and everyone else (lucky enough to have a grave)

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