Death In Dirt

Death In Dirt

Hath beheld no falsity to man.

In dirt, frail, stunted infirm mourned.

Turned to tenebrous hand,

A holy burden adjourned.

Its palms curled up

in ignorant requite.

What mercy bargain thou?

Where art thine convention?

Hold this fragile handle.

The cheek is chased,

To fingers mantel.

And murky silk cloud weeping down her face.

An unborn child laden.

Laden with the mark of birth, still,

Mercy bestow him his eyes, while

taketh them too, he will.

Fathers soul

God lent him.

Purpose, now memoir,

Oh, mentor, what has passed?

Jury, what justice is this done?

What whim?

Father be my executioner, Mother,

memento mori.

Veil of mine mortality, do thou endow

peace?

For what bide thine time?

For what reason taketh away?

For whom do thou serve, whom serves thou?

I only pray him lay upon bed of silver fleece, my son,

lazing day unto day, without cease.