I dream that I am in an unkempt cemetery.
I hover, like some badly-drawn angel just above my plain gravestone
With the dead posies crinkling brown into themselves, shrivelling in the sunlight.
I’ve never liked posies.
Never liked picked flowers at all;
Take me to a garden of wildflowers or more specifically, daisies,
And that is all the flower I could ask for.
I recall my funeral.
An empty, echoing church filled with silence.
There’s the people who feel duty to be there;
They wouldn’t even make a side in a hockey team.
You, I noticed, were not there.
Not present when my end came to pass,
Just like you’d grown not to be when there was still breath in my chest.
How is it that the pain of that still lasts
When I am merely mist in the wind?
And if this is a dream,
Some nightmarish landscape from which I can wake,
You still will be absent.
Conspicuously not there,
Faded into blank background like a sun-stolen painting.
There’s flickers of life in the cracked canvas:
An oil smear of memories that were happy and careless,
But overshadowed by too much smudging,
A thumb stroke showing you couldn’t care less.
Dead or alive, night or day, it’s time.
To stop haunting you.
To withdraw the ethereal connection that ceased,
Shrivelled long ago like deceased, decaying tendrils.
To stop finding patterns in plain painted walls.
To stop pretending that you’re someone that I know,
When I never really knew you at all.
I dream I am in a silent cemetery,
Six feet deep in an endless, peaceful sleep,
With nothing for company but me.
It’s not so bad.
I lay in a bed of daisies and dirt,
Succumbed to the mercy of being free from hurt.
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