Wrinkled Baby of Grave

Gazeth upon the past is the beauty vested from thy time

Of Strands that yet art black shines with the rise of sun

When a flower blooms together with the kiss of snow

With lips that utter sweet red songs

And a heart that beats reckless of dangerous desires

Doth thy young time were cherished?

Before long when that wrinkled your soul

And your scent compared to the mud of earth

Hath you laugh on the bed of grass and embraced the strength of trees?

Before you wet your ruby cheeks of fear and forlorn

Minutes turn to hours, hours to years then gone

Thy strand of hair became silver

Thy color drained and thy painted gray

Thou laugh in little moments

With voice almost gone

Husky or solid not

But raspy and thy breath is almost out

A heart stained with sorrowful love

Of shaggy shoulders weighted wings of heaven

Then feet walk’d on the universe

A product of past and present

But in present rests thee in oblivion

A life full of question

For death is to arrive near yet no presence is to hold thy hand

And tears wet thy wrinkled cheeks

But thy cry can be heard only in thy ears

Until fear caged thy heart

Why is no one around 

To sing I a lullaby

Of happy death instead of mute goodbye?

Was it for I an old being

A creature of disgust

A wounded filth

A blinded weight to shoulder

Bones that weaken and lost

Time’s subject of patience

Description of death

Thou an old being be ignored

For soon will blend in the sand and thy will die

She’s a myth of beauty but a dying being 

Who demands for the presence of love

For in second childishness will be filled of painful cries

A baby who lost her sight 

A baby who cannot stand

A baby who peed on the ground

A baby alone in her old creaking crib

A baby we don’t care about

A baby gifted of death

And a baby forsaken of love

Cries are not meant to be heard

Her weak breath is normal to die

Until thou rests in thy grave but no one mourns

And no flower to wither on thou tomb

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Writing is Love!

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