“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, October 6, 2018
They carry no identification
The lost souls could not
have been
-strayed-
unwillingly taken
from their way,
meaning-intention.
Did I mention
they found Us
in sad shapes too,
(round bodies in square
boxes),
what to do
about maps that don't make a clear path through
tough terrain
& letters that refuse to column, justify, paragraph
or add up to cents?
I swear atop the nameless grave,
I saw the spirits, the others
looking away, must have been
confused by their own disparate
directions toward the destination
all call
'Home'.
There was always more than one way
there and back,
although there never stayed the same.
The tree markers,
bleed and breathe,
resembling each other,
unlike the stone
every body was required
to find
a building for the soul.
Painting by George Elgar Hicks, 'Gypsy girl' c. 1899 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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