Footprints on the path of death--
none may return or triumph here,
those still living count each breath--
the mind like a sepulchre dies within.
Who is the judge of unbridled sins?
that delivers ashes unto the ground--
A lifetime ends yet another begins,
on a wintery weekend afternoon.
What of those who part in June?
the angels care not for the seasons--
the devils care not for the moon,
heaven rests upon a window pane.
Hearses form a lifeless campaign--
a parade of silence without pause,
whispering words of unending pain--
within the house of bread and wine.
No poetic words could ever define
the look of sadness that I have seen--
The open casket is someday mine,
for this new Sunday I did decline.