I pray

We  are

Buried in a

Bed  of  roses

With holes above

Us to  feel  the wind

Sweep through graves

Whistling sweet stories of

Our life time and jokes  about

This unending fear of death

Just so we  laugh quietly

Because this little fear

of an internal end

Was only the

beginning.

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Doesn’t the idea of growing old with someone just make your heart melt?

*Pinterest Photo*

©aishaadamspoetry