The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Wednesday, October 29, 2008


Bluish are the petals of this bloom
Growing beautifully near my grave
I am unable to touch or smell it
Buried below the soil like a slave
Six feet under dirt yet without pain
Unable to hear the droplets of rain
In silence and blind absolute dark
Lost sanity long ago, it went insane
Forget-me-not and come by to visit
Bringing these small flowers of joy
Invite your daughter for me to see
And do not forget to bring her boy
You may or may not understand this
Reading my few lines oddly composed
Probing how this poem was written
Perhaps you are even a bit repulsed
I write with the eyes of the departed
From another world labelled for dead
Below the surface of our subsistence
In dust and ashes of their wood bed
Nor dead or alive yet somehow living
Co-existence of a soul we cannot see
Hoping we catch a glimpse and wave
To the now deceased of you and me
Mothers, fathers children and soldiers
All who lived, loved and even fought
For better, worse or peace of mankind
Forget-me-not in your silent thought

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