on my grave

on your grave i send roses
clever, folded pages of a book,
with ancient gilded lines, writing
itself seconds after your death
ruined the days of your happiness.
happiness of mine,
it was defined by mysteries,
wonders of the moment that came
cruelly inconsiderately,
on my grave i brought those
those which I claim to be yours
so blind you are?
fingers surrounding all of
where your mind seem to linger
i, in vain, exert a call,
to nourish once more,
many aspects of you
those physical mostly.
not ashamed, not a drop,
a grain, a refrain,
of a flashy elegy only
pervades.