Poetry: Bluebells

by Max

I have stood vigil
at her grave
the turned dirt
dark and wet
In the snow and when the bluebells grew
There I stand
there can be no road forward
The man dancing in the tunnel
blue headphones and red backpack
he’s a ghost.
it wasn’t when grandfather hurt me
that I died.
that memory came back sooner
than she did
pain is like a scream vibrating over nerves
It leaves an echo scaring the soul
and in that scar the fare across Styx is paid
Her pain was not mine
Her pain paid no fare
for the river was not crossed

Today I ride the train
but part of me
stands at her grave
unfound and lost

have paid
enough fare
for all
of me


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