A Wretch

Standing by the graveside, straps lower you down. I glance towards heavens high, where solace seems to frown. Broken and bewildered, my soul has turned to stone. I cannot accept mortality, whilst denial fills my own. Sinking into grief so deep, loves price, for being born. Death I curse and spit at thee, A rancid rose bears thy thorn. If come a day, when darkness burns, Ill stoke the fire, in mourn you’ve borne. By David Kavanagh.