my poetry died
with my grandfather,
it was dead and buried
under the bright green grass
like carelessly tossed
snapdragon seeds,
and nothing there is bright
anymore
especially under the ground,
where they rest quiet,
while I hover above
that brown capsule,
that wooden treasure chest,
holding an pile of
empty pens and
dead flowers,
courting what is
already gone
and will never
come back
to life.

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