poems, writing

powdered ash

his past is buried 10 feet
below gravel,
insidious king.

how he feasts on maggots
that dig into his flesh,
ashes of the unborn
and defeated
wallowing in dirt

while his death is
like cold, cold
wax in a museum.

the funeral is silent,
his umbrella wife
holding all the rain,
all the tears
that have fallen

of the holocaust
that holds shadows of
positive light
in a landmine of bones.

their bones ache,
powdered ash
blown by the wind
as a child of 40
looks for the father
he has lost
many, many
years ago.

the land drifts,
when the dirt meets
his skin.

heaven holds no place
for this man,
no place for the bodies
he has shoved

10 feet below
without gravestones.

there is no place for him

oh, how the
gods weep.


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