A. B. Blohm Writes

On the day that I did die you failed to shed a solemn tear for me. Or reflect on all the love that was never had, as I swayed away beneath that wilting dogwood tree.  

And here is where I first loved you, but you denied me, with those swooping doves above singing those songs of all that would never be. So now this knot suffocates me beneath this wilting dogwood tree. 

And if you should find me swaying on that breeze, just dress me in my best and lay me by the creek, next to an acacia leaf.   

But you won’t mourn for me or ask for grace. So, my soul carries on to another place, to find that promise of peace and eternal rest.