She promised me poetry on my grave.
Or at the very least, to try and behave.
And as she stood there in the rain she made good.
I write my own poetry on a piece of wood.
Time yet not for a bed of dirt.
her words only echo they do not hurt.
Sifting through these ashes I found the words,
Bringing to page the largest of birds.
In my noblest of efforts to think ahead of my pen.
My thoughts drift back to her again.
This is nicely written. The words flow beautifully.
Thank you very much. that means a lot to me. Spending 30 hours this week on this drawing stirred up a lot of words. it wasn’t til the drawing was done that I could sort through them.
I wish I could draw and write, but alas, drawing eludes me.