37. Colours of death

She may be dead
but her grave is alive,
not kicking, but
hosting the growth,
of the flowers you tend.

Memory is not storage,
nor simple retrieval,
but tending a garden
to cull and collect,
to keep the flowering.

Colours you collected
from the length of her life,
planted in so many gardens,
that took in her light
to root in the dark.

Invisible the lies
that dream of the truth
to come out in the end,
in all that was said,
becoming undone.