Writing prompt
- Write what you would lay to rest
Poem: Summer's Afternoon Dirge (draft)
In a house of wailing,
the walking stick taps out
a rhythm on the chapel floor,
drowning the sound of wounded cries.
a rhythm on the chapel floor,
drowning the sound of wounded cries.
Weeping, we march down the aisle
to offer our phraseless laments
deemed no match for the sorrow
seated in the front row pew.
seated in the front row pew.
Death sought standing room only,
and our blessed hands dipped
in the fountains of holy water
could not console.
could not console.
