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burial
by Jared Fladelandsifting through my fingers
i heart the dead.
do you ever
stare through the cemetery gates
and feel the eyes of a hundred fathers,
brothers,
sisters,
mothers,
grandpas and grandmas,
staring back at you?
i'm trapped inside a cube
composed of the tender loins of history.
a fog
hides them from my eyes
but I can hear them whispering
disapproving shakes for the things I've done,
left undone,
and dreamed of doing.
sifting, ssssssssssssssss.
through my fingertips.
sssssssssssssssssssssss.
i hurt the dead. 03/12/2007 Author's Note: ha. I have no reason to sound so negative
Posted on 03/12/2007
Copyright © 2024 Jared Fladeland
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Tom Goss on 03/12/07 at 04:49 PM Sometimes a poem comes out in a different mood than that of its vessel! Your second and third stanzas are strong, like Bull. I hear your poetic voice clearly. |
| Posted by Katerina T Nix on 03/17/07 at 10:38 AM I think our minds do many strange things... I wrote some of my favourite love poems when I really felt like dying. I also wrote misrable poetry when I felt great. The universe's way of balancing us out, I suppose :) Great read as per usual, Jared. Well done and thanks for sharing this piece.. |
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