Beauty is the dead
The antlers beside my bed
A skull of moss
And bones across
My shelf of life and death
Green is breath
A flower of spring
To break the winter's sting
Flowers and bones
And creek bed stones
Are beauty in my eyes
From springtime to fall
Autumn's ghastly call
Is answered by those who hear
But the sky will clear
And the flowers will bloom,
Providing new life room.
The endless cycle is why I wake
To what earth will make of us:
Our story of birth and age
Where bones write our page
Our story which is made,
A foundation being laid
For our bones to tell their tale
Once our lives should fail.
That is why I live
Beside the stories
Marrow tells
And that is why
I believe
Beauty is the dead.
Author's note: Bones and plants. What could be more poetic? I collect bones. I collect plants. Put 'em together, here we are.
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Trillium Beneath the Pines: An Original Poetry Compilation
PoetryA compilation of my poems, many of which explore the cyclical nature of the world: life and death, day and night, and the seasons.
