The Truth

I don’t want my mother to visit my grave
& I’ll tell you why
Her bouquet is a narcissus flower
A single daffodil, something plucked
Simply because it bloomed
on her side of the road [on the way]
and her eyes will remain dry

The stone she stares upon
will become the wall l’ve fought against
(All of my life)
& she will hate then.
But how can she blame the stone

For being dramatic
Its stony gaze
Shows not a blink
Or for manipulating her
With my tears
How can a stone talk back
Or form any other opinion nor fact

But one:
That I am dead, and gone,
She’ll find a way, though

As always, always, to blame it on me.


6 thoughts on “The Truth

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