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.