Walking Through The Cemetary On Heroin....

the leaves follow me.
Dead leaves,
riding on the back
of the northwest winds.
They're blown across the pavement
and they chatter like bones,
those leaves.
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
lie the
fallen petals; they tried so hard
to hold on, but they couldn't, and
they didn't.
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,
will come.

by Carl A.I.

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