I may be one

who does not care.

Too late for life.

Too late for love.



It blew too hard,

it has to go.

A little through

my lips and throat.



Never anymore.

the dead.

The hush

of wood.

The knock

of echoes.



I wonder...

why do men

hate to die?

When all

this boy wants...

to lay

six feet

under this

cursed ground.



Where tears

water the

scarlet roses

pushing up

the fertile soil

where I lay.



Tomorrow death

will come

and stay.



But for me....

Tomorrow must

be much too long.

Kristofer Kries

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scarlet-roses/