The Flowers

“The Flowers”

I dreamed that I dreamed about your face,
I want to wake up, and see you’ve come home.
The night you died; you said it hurts to sleep so sound
In a sweet dark so deep just before the moon shone
On the rose petals kissing your gown in a rain of crimson light.

The tears that fell from my eyes on the coffin you became
Watered such bouquets as alas! had begun to wilt.
Coming back to life, they blossomed and blushed
And I swore to return to this garden of death
To keep the flowers from withering away.

Now, the shadows blame me, for the flowers are gone.
As time passed the living by, I strayed from your grave.
The shadows tell me all that waned in the garden
Was all the beauty I kept in my heart of you,
No more to bloom, no more to grace the tomb.

Alas! I find no flowers that please the shadows.
They speak of your bones, they scream of my soul,
Saying all is in ruins, and my tears are but stars
Whose light faded long ago…
Near the gate of the cemetery, wreathed in shades
I stand weeping, for they say I may not enter.

O! That I could bring the flowers back to life!
But the shadows gather round the bouquets.
And in the dawn, I find over your withered bones
Not but jewels of dew on naked thorns,
And the shadows stand, sentinels of decay
So that I may not enter, and my tears cannot save you.

© 2022 Marten Hoyle