Buried six feet under the snow
Is the last petal of rose
From the garden we built as one—
Nothing left to save there,
Nothing we could’ve done.
Cut by the thorns we bled,
Every last drop in tears,
Scars in scabs that open still—
WE never did truly heal,
I fear we never truly will.
How cruel that we still go back
Ripping stitches that never closed,
Plunging daggers in beating hearts,
Drenched in scarlet to the bone,
Breaking down and falling apart.
Buried six feet under the dirt
Is the last bone we had to pick,
We drifted apart a little too far,
The tides of time too strong to fight,
Now we’re left with misery and scars.
We broke surface for a breath of air,
But down we went again,
The weight on our shoulders heavy,
Atlas couldn’t have fought this;
All we are is just you and me.
Buried six feet under in the grave
Is the knife you stabbed me with,
Stained with blood gone cold
And all the history I carried with—
But resentment never really gets old.
So I haunt the gardens that we killed;
Words like knives and swordfights
Ring like it was just yesterday,
And buried six feet under the faraway hill
Lies our love that died a terrible death.
~© Shubhangi Srinivasan.
Writing about metaphorical death is so much fun. I began writing this poem thinking that I would eventually make it a happy one, but it’s just one of those days when writing angst feels so much better instead, so I went ahead and made it an angsty and slightly scathing one for all the metaphorical deaths that we have died at the hands of people we handed our hearts over to! Hope you like reading it!
The Shubhster! Xx
Featured Image by Aditya Vyas on Unsplash
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