The Death of a Child

One of the first poems I wrote, probably not as good as my later works, I think it could use quite a bit of work

The Death of a Child

 

A death of a child,

holding a wilted white flower,

the reaper didn’t celebrate

the suffering his corpse was showered.

 

As a bright light fades

the child’s soul abates,

Sitting alone in a grey cubed labyrinth

with happiness running late.

 

The child wearing a pitch black suit

Murdered by the clock

His corpse was still breathing

as the crows flocked.

 

The adult mourns the tragedy,

clinging to memories.

clutching a rotting brown flower,

remembering the pleasantries,

and missed opportunities.

 

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