Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Of Turned Beds

Uncovering imprints,
warm spots of heroes who have left
to conquer other lands more hospitable.

One millionth attempts
to prevent the cold alone,
like returning to a lost homeland,
never recovered—of turned beds
and turned hearts once full of charity.

Of open bodies,
warmness trapped within the sheets.
The tundra too expansive
for closeness, the paradise
too humid for cramped quarters.

Open palms, now closed, now old.
Too decrepit to even
hold anything.
Closed to heaven,
for the eyes are heavy,
looks away from the door.

There will be no soldier at the gate,
no mother waiting,
no child wanting,
just shadows passing,
forever passing.

There will be no one to administer,
no one to trespass,
finally still from all the distance.

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