Beneath the ground are your remains
in that wooden box. What was once your face now turns to decay
and rots, and rots.
Where they planted flowers now are little shoots -
green fingers creeping through the dirt.
The earth that was piled high six months ago
has flattened. Yet another sign that time is passing.
Inbetween the cracks, you push up pansies.
One year & two months and I still miss you like it was yesterday.
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