Replete with Stars
Dim Lights in the Ether
The Martyr’s Shroud
Do we dwell on the pain
in these aching refrains,
passages, images,
tragic and relentless?
Of course we do. Poets,
Aching groans, will throw this
kerosene on the fire.
The Rhyme? Funeral pyre,
to burn away the filth,
the tainted soil that wilts
better things we’ve planted.
It’s taken for granted.
There must be a great pain,
to it, again, again
we retreat. A default?
Certainly, it’s a vault,
Within, the Martyr’s Shroud,
Return again, be proud.
© CGT, 2017.
