Your life has shriveled to its close.
All that remains are the protruding bones
of memory, bleached coffin-white
by suns of time.
You died as you had lived, in pain,
calling out your mother’s name
until God weakened, and sent her
to reclaim what was once hers,
now hers again.
Rest alone, and in that singular peace
which you purchased with your prayers,
rest bless’d, the sole beneficiary
of your own benedictions.
Death came not too early, but too late.
You could already hear
the shuffling of impatient mourners,
the scraping of the shovel
unearthing a narrow grave.
You knew exactly what we were doing.
You knew, yet you chose to die,
without remonstrance, quietly
to oblige us, and your waiting God.
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[Unpublished] |
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