Sunday Afternoons

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.