Four and Half Hours Searching for My Dead Grandpa

wander among the grass
blades green,
search the last vestige of life
stone written
naming my past man

fore hours past
spent anguish in the back
the siblings:
little brother, little sister.
do not know our specific shear
of a pain too unique
to every blade too tall.
how rooted in decay
these blades stand

the grass feeding off the dead,
only those symbols struck to stone
fight the forgotten-ness I deem to harness

Oh! Beautiful Sun!
Wake My Skin!
Wake the Wondrous Blades!
I Hate to Wander On!

two square blocks filled
with corpses washed, baptized!
in roots to life. the wandering
young eyes floating
haphazard, wisps of furry
white seed puffs scanning
stone after dead stone
wandering to find a man
of feigned hate. more akin
to me than phallic
patriarchs grow.

expecting
rotten brown foul sewage blades
above his eternally tired eyes.

Mistaken!

the waves
of anguish pass
soil to roots
grow my own
blades of breath

Akin!
Once Again!
We Both Grow Green!
Blades of Life Sprouting!
meekly, Greatly, to the Sovereign Sun!
Oh! Beautiful Sun!
Shine Both on Sewer and Saint!