A Winter Storm At The Cenotaph
I stand waiting within the antechamber
of the Spirits, buffeted by the echoes
of the living.
I touch the marble classic columns
with my tears; the cold stone sucks
my water in.
We fear the storm of those voices,
an unsought handsel clamorous to reward
Rain does not wet us, nor does
the ice nor snow of atheistic fury make
We are beyond all that; we only fear
the echoes because we lived our lives
and like a dirty sin, this habit we trail
along behind us like Marley's chests
of empty gold.
When I thought I could stand no more
and sought the oblivion of the marble's
now succulent veins -
an eternity of seeking past- yet my Love
was sudden upon the horizon where used to be
and I broke free from my renown prison
and my voice burst mantic from my breast and I