Dead

Once a year, on the Day of the Dead

I visit the inn we knew together

I take my headphones and listen to the French music we enjoyed

A flower always joins me when I come in

but stays on the table when I leave

enclosed by the paintings on the walls

awaiting the slow death to come

I guess we never really change

cause I'm still wondering about the future

just like we used to do

with my sight lost in the horizon 

and my heart full of plans long overdue

Environment however, is anything but still

This year I got the flower and traveled once again

to the inn, to remember, to celebrate

only to find our inn was also dead

replaced by a gas station, a convenience store

no more paintings, no more tables

that's the past

now I should plan to forget.

Ulysses A.