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.

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