flowers.

I stepped into a grave, it wasn't spooky, wasn't chilly.
But sure was quiet.
It was a dead blog, obviously the writer haven't spoke for long.
Those stagnant writings were exactly like carvings on a tombstone, gently depicting history.
Sad, happy, proud history.
In the same fashion, history was being written until suddenly, the pen stops.
The pen, and the pendulum stops.

Glancing around, i found a certain familiarity. For awhile the writer became so alive in words
it was stinging of nostalgia.
A smile lit up my face, but tears went down my heart.
Looking a little to the left, i see the guest book, i see the plate of marble.
I left a little note. Then, i left a bouquet of white roses.
Somehow the way the bouquet bounced on the marble plate felt strange.
I thought i smelled a stench of rejection.
Other guests were here before, and they too left flowers, not a long time ago.
But somehow it all feels foolish.

Who reads these? Who appreciates?
Isit meant for the writer, or for the visitors?

We miss the deceased to much, will the deceased ever read what we write?
Will what we write give life? At least a smile?

At least a reply?

No, its those who are still alive...
We're the ones being forgotten.