flowers in the hands of the dead

 
 
the years pass like
water under an
old stone
bridge
 
but somehow  
 
the days stay the
same
 
the same as graceful swans
gliding across a  
blissful  
lake
 
the same as all the  
wars of  this  
world
 
the same as pain and  
determination are
two sides of the
same
blade
 
the same as yesterday  
 
the same a today  
 
the same as tomorrow  
 
and are just as useless as  
placing  flowers in  
the hands of the  
dead