Oh death, where is your sting? – I Corinthians 15:55
And death I think is no parenthesis – E.E. Cummings 


We dress it in black. Night. Un
-known. We give it a scythe, a sickle,
the fickle heart of time. We deem it
grim, dig it
……………….(dirt nap)
laugh in its dark hooded

We carve dates and dashes in mar
-bled stone, hoping they
might be more permanent
than our own

We speak to sky,
and ponder. Wonder after
after. Contemplate
the daily

knowing all the while
that it is something (for) which
we can


Prompted by PAD, day 18


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1 Response to Quietus

  1. erbiage says:

    Ah. W mar the stone with our words. I cut through a cemetery on the way home, the stones from 1873 are barely legible.

    Sent from my iPad

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