Mother Poem by mark king

I. Never did I want to be here, but I remember why I came. Death spreads before me in words, black words on the whitest paper. I pick my head up somehow then read what they want to hear.
II. With their ears pleased and their numb minds they leave to gather on the grounds. Handshakes and encouraging words flow as everyone takes their places again.
III. After the preacher is done preaching she is lowered slowly into the gaping hole. The flowers gracefully fall to her, unlike the way I fell from grace. In and amongst the flower petals with bright colors shards of me remain.
IV. With the sunlight reaching for her only a dark corner remains there, just like mother and I were entangled all our lives. Time wins on a september day.