Flowers for the Dead

It was the disappearance that churned my stomach and turned my heart black.
It was not the veil of fog that was lifted and revealed the distant sight
of vines and spider webs that joined to trap me in.

The pavement where so many enjoyed walking, before the rain.
The accumulation of saliva and food, everything turned white and tasteless

The marching of footsteps.

It vanished into oblivion where time stand stills and black cloaks cover the eyes.
It is where people say that the sparrows sing their last song,
and hide when their wings are broken.

Dear Charlemagne,

I saw you upon your horse today, galloping with head and steed held high.
I tucked myself behind the brush so you would not catch sight of me.

You then stopped and observed the landscape.
Your eyes shone with contentment of the all that was quiet in the forest.
I even thought I saw a smile sweep across your face.
And all the horrible memories of what was in the past slowly began to fade.

What is your legacy? As I studied your physic and the horse you rode.
Your beast had burrs in his tail and mud was caked on his back flanks.
You yourself looked short and no magic seemed to be given to you by those
who believed you to be part fae.

Yes, Charlemagne you have captured the imagination and tales have been spun with such a colorful weave. But to a simple girl hiding near by, you were not a man, but the King of the Franks.