David McLansky

Rookie - 484 Points (5/24/1944 / New York City)

When Planting Flowers on My Grave


How fragile is our love and labor,
It flickers like a wind-whipped flame;
How fast our wick does burn and taper,
Ending life in smoke-like fame;

Plant perennials here in my soil,
Knowing Fate's inconstancy;
That from my grave for all your toil
I'll over-grow your memory.

Submitted: Sunday, March 30, 2014
Edited: Monday, March 31, 2014

Topic of this poem: love


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