The Flower
A flower grows above the spot
Where my body was buried and left to rot.
A stone is near where my head should be,
But I am not here--no I am free.
A flower bloomed in the crusty dirt,
Where my rotting flesh is free from hurt.
The Culture
It is said that where
There is death
There flies a bird
Called vulture.
So what can be said,
Of all those birds,
Circling over our Culture?
[I will have some new thoughts soon. Thanks for the letters of encouragement. DG]
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