Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Perspective from a Low Place



Smell that grainy asphalt:
bits of black tar on your forehead
while you cry there, lying still
Thick mucus trickles like dammed
streams down to wavering lips, causing 
mini pools around congealed oil

It's a kind of dramatic episode:
an intense, bold climax
of a tragedy 

You know the flow of life 
and how these things work
Still, you feel a loss 

You hear the drone of polished
remarks, spoken to solidify
with good intentions 

He didn't know the one lying 
in that box made of cedar
How could he say those things - nice things?

Imagine if he told the truth?
Would it make you feel better?

An elderly woman mourns,
her blouse spotted with human rain
You see the spots from the ground

Words stop; eulogy complete
Box lowers into earthly orifice
You already miss the love you lost







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