If you’re like me,

Then you didn’t bury her in flowers.

After she fell, and before you rose,

In those dark times you hid her.

Shrouded in clay she sinks into the ground.

Surrounded by weeds and thorns, she slips away.

If you’re like me,

Then you take up her mask.

No longer faceless, seamless you slip in.

Oil churning behind the veil.

The difference is palpable.

An unhinging shade of nothing.

If you’re like me,

Then the facade will fail.

Confused, they will twist away.

Backs will turn, and shoulders will freeze.

From behind the warmth of the garden calls.

If you’re like me,

Then you are alone again.

In the cold you will feel me.

When you’re time comes,

I won’t bury you in flowers.

You will rest next to her, and the others before.

In the thorns.

In the weeds.

If I’m like you,

I’ll join you there.

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