70 of 693

by Lindsey Stell

The cool light washed over the tombstone.
On fake flowers that almost looked real.
Bought with love and affection,
But not nice enough for someone to steal.

She hoped they would be there in the morning.
She didn't want his grave to be bare.
Although she couldn't recall him,
She prayed that he knew she still cared.

Her grandmother now laid beside him,
Covered in fresh dirt and roses.
And although she is sad that they are both gone,
She is thankful his mother can hold him.

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Poetry: Death

by Lindsey Stell

Poetry: Death

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