Poplar Grave

The poplar trees above my gravestone weep solely for me. Their tears pitter patter upon my earth, whispering unwavering truths.

My long, orange hair barely in the ground, they murmur of my mother's empty arms, my father with no arms with which to hold.

A birthday candle burns to the brim, chocolate and mould flavoured icing. I am the vaneless arrow nocked and loosed from my parent's bow, though never retrieved.