Walking Through The Cemetary On Heroin....
the leaves follow me.
by Carl A.I.
riding on the back
of the northwest winds.
They're blown across the pavement
and they chatter like bones,
I notice the names;
I am surrounded by names.
Victors and Matthewson, and John.
John Graves' grave.
The shade of a willow tree,
who's branches flow like a head of hair,
keeps the summer heat
off the lucky ones.
The children across the street
shriek and laugh
like they are truly alive,
and they are.
I wonder if John Graves ever shot up.
Underneath the boquet of flowers
fallen petals; they tried so hard
to hold on, but they couldn't, and
I think there is a petal for every person;
but we need more flowers in here,
and I mean quickly.
Roses, Tulips, Daisys, Etc.
Soon they will come, and soon they will fall
and soon more will come.
And more will come, and more will come,