Seven Years after his Death
Padded land, scorched by time,
Not a single shoot crawls through that dust
And in emptiness, the last truth sublime,
I sit and watch where end it must.
Concrete markers, that define the plot
Now crooked with time; of not being made
To stand straight when to stand staright they’d not;
The roughened grey with less to fade.
The giant tree on the side, shedding leaves
Stands mum to time as idle strings
Of women, by a newlaid grave grieves
The sense of loss a dead infant brings.
Blow dry, where you blow, wind of artless ease,
Without pace, or depth; with time in your hand
And hand down to visions we dream to please
A grave out of space where truths less expand.
When lowered they cry, their soulless sighs
Follow you, stay, long after you are blot
By the shovel-fulls that box you out from eyes
Which pour out to clothes all fears they got.
And in our fears you buried deep down that hole,
Now mixed as insoluble with earthly matter
From where once you marked body mass from soul
Now, lesser a debate for the former; the latter.