Poem: Death Does Not Cry

By: Jami Miller

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I have learned how to bow down to tombstones
from all the skeletons who have undressed before me,
the headless dandelions that snuck away with the wind,
and the carnations thrown under the skin of the earth.
I have learned that death does not cry
and whispers never go unheard.
Dry faces are not to be blamed
and sometimes apologies never need to be said.
Punctured hearts will again make music like plucked, tuned teeth,
and childhood jewelry boxes are meant to be shut eventually.

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