A Mute Corpse’s Reflection on a Nobleman I ask a lord for rest, Says I, deprived! I‟ve wanting faith.

nay squalor? Says he, nay, you pray me, kneel And so I knell. Terse fingers meant for clay (they say, rough fingers meant for clay) Brush dirt from woolen backs. painless death n‟grass in heav‟n bleeding lambs don‟t ask for much. “We shall fall between the stones of Trickling clay, massed amongst the bones of our fathers…” We‟d rather not scatter So we roam in waiting circles, With the faded day like cattle, silent ill, dull ache. fickle smiling passers-by green without faces cringe as they come clean sleeved they watch our crook‟d step crying naught, or maybe stalled from fireburns hands made for rolled tobacco. “Seek shelter sweetly, Do not fear but do not listen Rather look up! Up! Wards to the sky.” see I quake not from spring‟s sun fleeing for by the day I find no light to speak of; embossed sentiment gives daytime‟s crooks no abdication. And though my memory‟s felled I do recall their swinging arm. Ere dawn the hogs n‟horses scuttle, newly wary of the clouds, and driving stake deep into mud farmers look at me aside. Yea I have sought a further nest, Below the topsoil „s veil. Through clotted veins of

Runoff just as much their soul Is in decay. “Cry not in the early, naught in the evenin‟, Reach up and shape the air With what obliterates your mind and Body‟s rest in time.” Where scholars „preciate the salve I‟ll chafe and rough with age, leave Hearkening herd at bay. For…nothing Saves or squanders, see. The damned-ed wait their term in company Low. Buried but not forgotten rots the time away To sort the lives left living sorely, I hold „em in remorse. And as for you, the elm trees sway towards Foundation s far from luxury‟s thirst Only the quitting day‟s last words will give to you a muse.

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