Death Blows a Flamed Horn
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In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sings a boding raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Where no graven image rise from its bones,
only a cold wormwood wind on death row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt life and parody
sit this day communing with God and you.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when diviners blow its fiery flamed horn.
Written: July 1995
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2024
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