Blood & Orchids

Several mourners gather in a line,
Their fingers stained with colored dye
From the paper flowers they put at my side
As their way of saying goodbye.
Then the earth will take me home
To the place from where I came
And this elaborate procession
Will be nothing more than a grave.
Soon the rain will turn the reds and greens blank,
Weeds will frame the headstone,
The wind will blow the little faux roses away,
And the vines of memory will become overgrown.
The recollections will blur and bleed into one
So that the picture is out of focus.
Where everyone will have their interpretation,
And have its own unique coat of gloss.
After years they will get their own set of flowers,
Taking the story of our lives into the night.
But the wild orchids that grew from my burial
Will keep on growing in the sunlight.