The refuge doesn’t exist –

in its stead –

are landscapes and crumbled paths.

 

Silence moves on the flank –

the trumpet sounds –

as death envelopes

the mourners

with the tacit reminder

that this place –

ain’t our home.

 

Tomes of sorrow

and tears that drown –

when the

Elders join the Ancients.

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Copyright © 2019 ShunPwrites.com All Rights Reserved

Writer, poet, possessor of 2 cents, blogger, recovering corporate animal and eternal student of life, who harbors a firm belief in his Grandmother's mantra that: "People need to get off of their rump and do something". All while keeping in mind that a cheering section will only get in the way.

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