Ashes of hope.

There is no hope, there is no doubt. No way of thinking, no way out. As usual, don't ask, don't tell.

Is it too late for my extended apology?
Merciful self-sorrow pours from my lips,
thick as molasses and bitter as bile.
I choke on my own pity, and such
putrid pity it is. Contradiction, I borrowed
from some other lucid soul. Everytime
I think of you, it's blasphemy.

I am my own judge. The evidence,
ill as a scraggy haired mutt, still holds
my death sentence. Rockets hold some
source of hope, yet also remorse.
Terrorism has no future for me. What have
I become? Am I so self-absorbed that
the world has dissolved in my hands?
All that's left of a million countries,
cultures and people is a sticky mess
in my hand and pockets.

The life cycle blooms forver and yet
is always rotting. The flowers of yesteryear
have ended in todays trash. Bouquets on
graves just highlight life, once a young bud,
always comes to a rather unpoignant end.
It always brings a smile to my face, to see
an unattended headstone, covered in dust and
roses dead as those who abide here. It shows
a true sense of forgotten, a sweet castaway
from memory. I don't want to have flowers
on my grave.

Purity is lost and hope is found.
Once a loved one, is underground.

I like it.

I really like it.

Awesome. As usual beautiful, yet strangely eerie.

'I don't want to have flowers
on my grave. '
pretty.

I loved it.

I loved that, really.
Especially the last stanza and the end.