graveyards

There is no poem of mine,

not filled with pain.

An accumulation of dirt in a grave,

my words spell a cemetery.

In death, death will show me

each headstone, filled with rhymes and songs.

She will show me the hours i’ve spent

etching my tears into monoliths

and explain why every second

was important in my life.

While i’ll sit and stare, remembering

every moment of anguish

that wasn’t ever read.

When she beckons me forward, taking

me to the quiet of my happiness, i’ll

ask for five more minutes, to sit in

the noise of my hurt- for five more

minutes not to leave me alone.