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.