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Black Sextant
Another family gathering
the place is packed with deep blueness again
the reason is the passing of yet another friend.
Faces are wrinkled -strained to the edge of recognition.
Sprays of flowers surround a metal basket
holy man staggers to capture the soul of a stranger
ancient chants spraying salt over those that remain.
Like a game of she loves me she loves me not
life is plucking sweet petals one by one
Next time we gather there'll be one less
this puddle of infinite blackness
reaching the beat of the heart's sextant
Tossed off course, losing all sense of direction
and will continue to do so until I'm unblessed.
Copyright ©
Anthony Biaanco
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