When lights dim,

And blooms die,

A catastrophic failure

Will be to your favor.

As they scream,

Bells ring.

And as they cry,

We lie.

Words in order,

A great disorder.

Bodies are under,

A great thunder.

We cry and remember

The thought of our lover

Or for our family

As they are now laying clammily.

We visit their graves everyday,

Bringing a bouquet.

Plants grow around them,

Occasionally causing mayhem.

Their deaths are tragedies,

And we can hardly come to the realities.

There are no real glories.

Even the dead tell stories.