Unconsecrated

Do they see me, from that Grave Watchtower;

Do they know these salty tears

Which trickle, dusty, down my neck?

My forehead creased by heavy years –

I shoulder the burden of my death

Alone, each solitary hour.

 

I hear the chimes of passing memory –

Anachronisms of an existence –

I lie beyond this dreadful passing,

But what remains beyond past sentience?

A lonely street, this road of ending

My only song, this elegy –

A lonely place, I'll not pretend:

Within my sights, exists no end. 

 

SJL: 4^th March, 2004

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