A Hundred Years Later, Emily
After a hundred years,
A hundred years later
Lifeless as a pressed flower,
your body carefully arranged-
an empty, flesh-less carcass,
in wooden box, your remains.
Blood filled organs emptied,
sucked clean by the maggots below-
tattered, torn, tossed, and tainted,
hidden deep, sweet Emily, finally alone.
Your words still bleed a sweet aroma,
like a fresh-baked sun on rain-
awakening the creatures of the wild,
the writers, creators, the untamed.
A hundred years later,
in a forever sleep you lay-
like wild flower blowing free,
in a world full of decay.
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