Since She Died

 

Never qualified to be a
               me.
There's human flesh making
            a geography
that cannot speak for itself.

Since she died, the past has lost
            it's hue, it's glow
               and changed
             color ever-after,
(nostalgia becoming the fuel for
             interior terror)
Since she died and death became
                 her provenance.

All that shit I thought before seems
                  pathetic
             if not loathsome        now.

So much of what was left behind are
            remains of a more vital
                         era.
                       An era
                 made of disfigures
                      of yesterday.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
2019dkzkdankozak/poem&pixPoem2019