Saturday, February 17, 2007

Something Devoutly to be Wished


Atrium voices bleed over threshold,
enter salon 6, linger with the wreaths
of dead husks of color that nod to eye,
their vivid dirge resonating - beneath
the canopy, he lies sheathed in vestment.

The conversation filters in like jabberwocky
lies, lacks girth or conviction: incantations
muttered to ward off the lack thereof.
Three deaths in three days: three rooms full
of the necessity of natural progression.

We are trespassers in this house with death's
hands pounding the walls into acoustic purity
so that all is heard - no word escaping
the debate - a silent and futile discourse.

Originally published in March, 2003 - Poetry Super Highway