Libations offered up to death,
pouring out my own heart’s blood,
dripping on the tomb of my body.
Such teardrops that stain and spread,
one for every heartbeat, a flood,
a rivulet, a trickle, a drop, gone,
bled dry. Gone to earth leaving
only an empty husk to haunt,
moaning, wailing dry tears, dry as dust
blowing in the wind, whistling a cry
through the standing stones.
Walk there if you dare and think of me,
perhaps lay a flower on the stain,
leaving it there to wither and die.
A fitting memory, a bloom plucked
full of life only to die in death embrace.
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