Flowers

Will you have the decency of apologizing
when you get too late
to my funeral day?
Will you stand beside my family
or beside my friends?
You're neither.

Will you take to my grave
those two pale flowers
you hold in hands?
Gilty flowers and
guilty fingers.
I won't thank none of them,
hidden in darkness
and lost in madness.

Don't stare at my grave
and don't do such an scandal
you may not truly fell.
I'll still be able to see
you and everybody else:
either lies and real pain.

Then I'll walk forward
through dust and mud,
into a darkening city
larger than this petty
town. I'll look myself in a long time
forgotten broken glass.
It will still be me,
but I won't recognize any of this:

Neither my body, neither my face,
neither my fears, neither my faith.
So I'll call back
and scream out loud;
I' won't rest there by myself
until you take me back to my place.

So keep calling, keep praying.
And also, now yes, bring me roses.

Thanks