Epitaphs for memories.
My stylographs are merely shovels
For those daybooks full of dirt
Gouging up some skeletons
In a cemetery full of hurt.
Submarined in rituals silent
Where we howbeit, chapel the loss
As solemn prayers
Jibing withered flowers tossed.
I sow another headstone
Just a marker on the dead
While overshoot of sadness
Decamp their hew unread.
The frittered days I bury
Are perpetually reborn
Like eulogy of poetry
Hinged on roses, stems or thorns.
Preferentially as epitaphs for memories
I covertly kill
~Rewriting my history
With this paper catacombs, I fill.