Centipede
by Ramy

No sun, no light, nothing but
darkness around your broken petals.
Bright yellow, slowly fading.

Fallen bees on each leaf,
what used to be a summer paradise
turned into a cold cemetery.

Your face looking downward
at your soon to be grave,
waiting for the final blow.

Wind, take her away.

Man, holder of the scythe.
death, deaTH, dEATH, DEATH
Slice her head, who will notice?

One in a garden bed, she found her way.
Rest now, little one.
At last, the wind will answer

like for centipede legs,
scattered limbs—Sorry, leaves!
It takes away the forgotten ones.

Sunflowers, like children, are sadly not infinite creatures.

In this euthanasic chaos,
revolting for some, perfection for others,
a butterfly lives, a centipede dies.

Bumpy road under one’s bare feet.
Your skeletons poking them till they notice,
the empty garden left behind.

Bugs will be bugs, whispers Death
Wind, please take her away!
Her agony is haunting me…