The Flowers We Leave Ourselves

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Black / Poetry

Rotting yellow;
on an altar of varnished wood;
you lie in wait for the rot to move,
onto the remaining length of your body.

The wind brushes against your papery skin.
You have no control, nor any feeling;
life is a ghost that has left you; in
what now seems like a shadowy shell.

What you are, and what you were,
now do not concur;
with the mass of yellow that you’ve left behind,
with no blood to use as myrrh.

–No scent to lighten your fear–
No scent to fuel those tears,
No scent-
yet you,
are forced to remain here.

The Author

27. Living large. You control how you make another feel, don't take that for granted. Peace, Love, and Positivity.

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