I Speak For the Dead
Note: This poem is the twin poem for "She Speaks for the Dead." This one is in the mockingbird's perspective.
I perch upon the locked gate,
awaiting the deepest hour of night.
My abode is among the shadows
of the gravestones, still and weathered.
There I hear a faint sound of
bare feet along the grass,
And I see a Woman near the cypress tree.
She is frail and clad in robes—
She looks at peace with the world, and with Death.
But the Woman stops as if she is waiting for something,
listening for something in the stillness.
Could it be my own voice that She is
calmly awaiting? Some trills of
Truth to break Their silence?
I feel a change in the air
as the shadows deepen on the headstones,
the monuments, the cypresses, the gate.
I begin to speak for Them
and that Woman with the gleaming
yet respite eyes
I begin to speak for Her.
My channeled chirps are
variations of lives once lived,
and my growing audience is vastly keen.
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2024
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