Open the casket
Tears fall
Your pale face
Is it really you?
Blood red roses gleam in the yellow light of the funeral home
The song plays
Months later
Memories flood, tears again fall
Leaving the restaurant, shaking, embarrassed
Blood red roses take over spare space in my mind
Where you used to be
Calls from loved ones
Will I ever see their face again?
Unnecessary captivity, abuse
What really goes on?
Words, thoughts, hopes, dreams
Dust...
Gathering on all of these
Empty.
Why did you go
Taken? No.
But from us, yes.
Blood red roses, gone now.
To return, when once again
Angel of Death
This piece is very strong. You made it your own with the emotions. I also really loved that you wrote it about something I can relate to. Every time you write, its stronger and gets even better.
ReplyDeleteI am really anxious to read what your inspiration was for this piece. I love it. The repetition of the phrase and imagery of the roses is powerful, and the use of sunlight, contrast in colors, is also dynamic in the way it presents the image. Funereal scene ... most definitely.
ReplyDeleteWhen the last two stanzas broke form (did you do that for affect?) I was taken aback as it broke rhythm and made me slow down, interrupted.
I hate that I am not going to be your teacher next year.
ReplyDeleteMy inspiration was actually my thinking back on that awful day that my grandfather died. There was so much emotion. I wanted to tell someone else how I felt, someone that knew what I was going through. Sadly, my baby cousin died a few short weeks later. I was brought back to that same feeling. I haven't been able to talk about this until this year. I thought that my blog was the best opportunity to get my thoughts out. I thought that breaking the stanzas would give the piece a more dramatic feeling. To think about the roses, then what happened while I felt this way, and then back to the roses again. Just to inforce the topic. I guess you could say that I have been writing this piece since the day my grandfather died.
ReplyDeleteYou see, the insight into your own process and inner workings as a writer tells of your self-awareness, and depth of maturity. Even the way you phrase it here is profound. Perhaps we are all writing our stories each day, stories we are storing up to share as soon as we know what happens, or can find we have something to share. I have been in similar situations, as the funeral, and you hit the mark. It is an abrupt feeling to stop the routine of living to acknowledge death in our midst, yet it is a necessary stop by the woods on a snowy evening. Hopefully we all have miles to go before we sleep.
ReplyDeleteAll we have is that hope though. But I guess that's better than nothing.
ReplyDeleteWow, Ellie, every time you write I realize how strong of a writer you really are, and I'm amazed at how much your writing has grown and matured throughout the year. This piece is amazing. I could just hear the emotion in your voice as I read it, and there was so much depth and pain in it. I could definitely sense your personal style in this, and I would've been able to tell it was you if I didn't know already from your blog. And I love that poem Mr. Johnson! Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. My dad used to read it to me. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
ReplyDeleteAha, Livvy. I love the seriousness in your voice. lol.
ReplyDelete