I may be one <br /> <br />who does not care. <br /> <br />Too late for life. <br /> <br />Too late for love. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />It blew too hard, <br /> <br />it has to go. <br /> <br />A little through <br /> <br />my lips and throat. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Never anymore. <br /> <br />the dead. <br /> <br />The hush <br /> <br />of wood. <br /> <br />The knock <br /> <br />of echoes. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />I wonder... <br /> <br />why do men <br /> <br />hate to die? <br /> <br />When all <br /> <br />this boy wants... <br /> <br />to lay <br /> <br />six feet <br /> <br />under this <br /> <br />cursed ground. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Where tears <br /> <br />water the <br /> <br />scarlet roses <br /> <br />pushing up <br /> <br />the fertile soil <br /> <br />where I lay. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Tomorrow death <br /> <br />will come <br /> <br />and stay. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />But for me.... <br /> <br />Tomorrow must <br /> <br />be much too long.<br /><br />Kristofer Kries<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scarlet-roses/
