A small red flower
Discarded on the road
Must have been given a girl
By a pretty boy one day;
Walking in some twilit high,
Brush of youthful pleasures.
She’ll have dropped it
Sometime shortly after their parting,
Not in any sort of distaste
But rather in peace and security
As now she holds it in her mind.
Like this we let the dead go
Because of this the flesh is let to rot or burn,
And this is okay for us.
Holding the bright head
Of beautiful ones
Loved fiercely in our hands
And carried in heart
For the rest of time
As blossoms strung
Through button holes
Or a letter in a pocket.
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