Birthdays come and go, 
but who carves a slice of cake
by the side of the grave for 
Grief to get a slice of what
is often an empty morsel 
of what used to be substantive...
and mortal? 

Who is to say if that
empty feeling on a day
set for celebration is worth
even mentioning in that 13th hour?
And why is it that we should even
expect those who claim to know us
and to pretend to love us would even
understand that in spite of all that appears
lovely and grand is only a particle of dust,
waiting to be swept under the green grass rug?

.2018
Cynth'ya Lewis Reed
All rights reserv'd.