"Flowers Of Black"


She stands in the middle of the grave

Her flesh turning white as she stands over her own body

She looks around her as she watches her family sob

She is desperate to tell her mother her soul is still alive

Scared that her family wont celebrate the same as before

Watching her father praying to the lord

Everybody with their heads down in one row

Laying flowers on the brown casket

There is no point for flowers

It doesnt make any sense to her

Flowers of black

Flowers are not supposed to die with her

Flowers of black

Every soul always come back

She stands next to her older brother

Wondering if she made him proud

One tear falls from his cheek

She catches that one tear in her pale hand

Feels the salty drop and rubs it on her cheek

Because all she feels is numbness

No emotion left in that soul

But she still feels the warmth in her family

She knows they love her

She died too young but accomplished everything she wanted

She is just so surprised the random people around her

The love is in the air

Even if its love with sadness

In minutes she sees all the flowers in that casket

Flowers of black

Every Hand, every touch she counted

Red flowers turned to flowers of black

Flowers of black

Her soul always comes back



Copyrighted 2007

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Comments (3)

3  PRM of C.O.R.E. & CEO The M.A.L.E. Secto Written by The Renaissance Poet , on 24-07-2008 19:33 , IP: 198.85.228.129 A poet’s greatest muse is that of a fellow poet, so…    I want to thank a sister by the name of Johee who inspired me to write this piece in response to her own titled “Flowers Of Black.” Beautifully written if I may say so. After reading it (for I see where this came from!) I had to compliment it with a short piece of my own.     So if I may…  (In response to “Flowers Of Black”)    “Flowers Of Black”    From processions to proceedings she could  feel herself waning from everyone’s heart  but that was not enough, even in spirit she prayed  and began for a new start…  for her soul came back  like melancholy rising in slighted dreams  still she could hear the graveyard cherubs sing  and surprisingly witness  her friends and even foe bawl alongside   her lasting rest with sympathy and woe    Closing words would not be remised   as they’d be coupled to send her off with   a loving, heartfelt and earnest kiss  heads burry themselves in awe  all around and not an unmoved being in sight  but there she remained poised, her head  buried in disbelief ‘pon all her might  oddly enough she could see all the lives she touched   without ever laying a single hand  and how all the memories she’d amass  with those she never thought would last  (her apparitional tears would fall…)    An elder would voice in her remembrance:  “An angel is born when a child dies  so we must not burden ourselves  over the loss of a mortal love but delight  in knowing that we’ve been given an Angel  in disguise to watch over our family!”  And as the last member would adorn  her site with an earthly yet most precious of gift  (a flower) such would hit her most and she’d miss –  that of a sweet red rose once given to her mother  that now lay atop of her given by her mother  as it be weighed down heavy with sorrow  and shame but mostly lonesomeness  and concern, resembling a flower dipp’d in black  - representing her lost soul    For this last moment overwhelms and consumes   her entirely so all she can do is cringe as  her ethereal cries would befall  drenching evermore and leave her -  a once zealous and bright young girl -  as this beautiful and spirited  Flower of Black.          ©COPYRIGHT08-PENDING:KEENAN M. GORHAM  (The Endowed Hand… “The Renaissance Poet”)

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