๐˜ด๐˜ฆ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ถ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ด

They say after youโ€™re cold and dead,
You have seven minutes inside your head.
Relive the past, revise your words,
Regret the things that never occured.

Recall the scent of your childhood home,
Look at hearts you carved in stone.
Cry upon the grave you grieved,
Question things you used to believe.

Remembering things long forgotten,
While thoughts slowly turn to cotton.
Things you deemed inconsequential,
Wind up being influential.

Never thought youโ€™d die alone,
Now you reap what you have sown.
Bitter seeds of malcontent,
Grew to form your lifeโ€™s lament.

But as your heart begins to frost,
You leave behind all youโ€™ve lost.
Seven minutes come and past,
And now you lay and breathe your last.

โžณ Abigail Hope