When it rains I tend to resurrect
a poem back from the dead.
A poem I buried long ago
with words that once were said.

As I read them again I truly began
To remember how I felt.
The pain within,
these thoughts were penned.
Leaving nothing out.

I began to finally realize
that these words were never dead.
Its a reoccurring feeling
That just plays back in my head.

A poetic mortician of preserving words
Is what I’ve come to be.
Presenting poetic expressions
In an effort to be free.

In my casket of poetry.
In which you see now and believe
Are all the wounded words I’ve written
Upon this deadened, dreaded tree.

Dressing the words within the urn
With rhythmic compositions
Selecting Themes, beyond your dreams
And anyone’s Comprehension.

Embalming words, it sounds absurd
But it prevents Decomposition
Although it hurts, I dig the dirt
And wait for recognition.

Cremating thoughts, I bury pain
Deep within my soul.
Cremation is my go too
When my grave is made of stone.

The tombstone of my memories
Is all but all forgotten.
Inscribed is all the words unseen.
Engraved unto my coffin.

Herein lies the poet
and his resurrected poems.
A poetic Mortician
That failed in his mission
To bury the pain he donned.

© JustAnotherInkling🎨