Susans

I poke and prod
at the earth above me
hoping to find some soft spot
to break the ground.
As I do,
my eye sees shades
of green and grey
crawling over the surface
of this boneyard,
and at last, I can breathe.
A soft breeze directs my gaze
in all directions
and I soak in roses and potted plants;
jealous of their rich beauty,
while I offer nothing but yellow petals,
and a black center.
A large stone,
tall and solemn,
carries a name I do not know.
It rests behind me like giant--
sleeping, and will never wake.
And I am but a stray wildflower,
sentenced to adorn this plot,
while my roots reach down
to a nameless master.
All I can do
is just sway, sway, sway,
in this potter's field.

Bouquets

Bouquets of lost steps
sit on my night table.
I haven't watered them
in what seems like days now.
They are wilted little impressions
of dry and dusty ground.
I used to walk with you
when we were younger,
and in bloom
but I cut those steps
from the ground
to place in my vase.
I wanted them to sing me to sleep.
Maybe I knew
that you'd eventually stop walking
and wanted to preserve
one small thing before you did.
But even my sunny hope
couldn't stop the truth
from making those steps lost.
Like flowers, dead now.
Steps, dead now.

You're dead now.

Osterich

To those who subscribe
to fluffy, flowery, rose coloured faith:
You're fooling yourself.
Utterly, totally, fooling yourself.

If you think sanctification is fun
then there's no work being done,
and if you think surrender is easy,
then you're just holding back.

Because really,
the refining is painful
and challenging, and long.
And the offering up
of a life you think is yours,
is to die to yourself,
every morning, afternoon, and night.

To those who subscribe
to a surface level, mushy gushy faith:
wake up.
Get your head out of the proverbial sand,
and wake up.

Black Eyed Susan's

I pick the dead blooms, 

off of my Grandmother's black-eyes susan's, 

thinking of those words you used to say

about death and what comes next. 

There's a little bit of yellow left, 

in each expired flower, 

to remind me of what it once was. 

You used to say we never amount to anything, 

and that this life is just a waiting room

holding us to time we can't escape. 

I ignore your dribble about meaninglessness. . . 

A green grass marred with flower corpses, 

reminds me of what your hope looks like. 

You cover the light, you erase every smile. 

The next dead flower on the ground will be you.