By Samantha Sinclair
No more shall flowers bloom upon
the barrow where carnations grew
so tall above the daisies, now gone
with thoughts of mine and thoughts of you.
There’s no remains except for those
that lie as empty as the page,
the lines are filled with thoughts of prose,
a hollow space, a bare rib cage.
The nurtured muse once swaddled close,
born out of breast, was given life
through blood and ink, now only ghosts
pen epitaphs as compromise.
A tale is birthed only to die.
A story dead before it’s done.
Too soon The End begets goodbye.
Mourning began at conception.
I live in chapters never written,
a single script titled “grief-stricken.”
Her life gave me life you see,
she took hers and killed the muse in me.