At the Crematorium

the white smoke

curls and coils

and drifts

like a wisp

of  your hair.

 

Blood red roses

thrive in bone rich soil

velvety smooth

and secret-scented

like the inside

of your wrists.

 

Heart of a red rose DH

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1 Comment

Filed under Death, Poem

One response to “At the Crematorium

  1. Very moving and touching

    Like

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