The prompt for the poem below was simply, "How is your body a mausoleum of flowers?"
I pricked my finger on the rose
I cast atop your grave.
My droplet of blood,
camouflaged by the buds
the others threw on you.
Then you were hidden too;
your body, a mausoleum of flowers.
While each of us beheld
the shorn beauty of your life
and pretended we would live forever.
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And this is where I landed (revised, 3/24/23):
Grief's Cliche
The rose I cast upon your coffin
is scent-less in the dead winter’s cold.
Thorns, rendered painless;
my fingertips, numb.
Curiously, I see a timid trickle of my blood
mix with the petals already covering you.
Then, lost in red, you are hidden too:
Your body, a mausoleum of flowers.
I exhale. A puff of air dissipates like incense.
My life shorn, my body suspends itself.
Lungs empty, I kill time at your grave.
I crave belief, yet question all truths:
This pretense I am sharing
a final breathless moment with you.
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