Poetry

Dead (version 1)

Dead.

That’s what you are now.

A terrible fact I can’t change.

You were so vibrant.

You made me feel more than what I am.

Now you’re a pile of ash,

In a tiny wooden box I can’t bear to look at.

I feel your loss constantly,

Like an itch I can’t scratch,

I lay awake in regret,

For being too selfish to see the signs.

© 2017

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