The Grave

Covered in moss, I dig up the grave
with the shovel,
where our memories stay .
You’ve turned dark, but I smell you
in these yellow pages, I live a bit of you .
Running my fingers through,
you leave a stain, I washed long .
But, there I stop… at our Island
when Red was the colour of our life
with fumes of the stinking love, so fine and real .
It was the time, I lived ….
Rose lived… We lived .
Prayed the vows, weaved threads
to the holy saints of love.
Yes, we lived …
in the image of Rose
and Rose in us … in Me .
Too soon,
the moon shifted
It found its grave
and I lived
in the heart of deadly drugs.



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