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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Published by Shun P. Writes
Author, Genealogist, Writer, Poet, Podcast Host, possessor of 2 cents, Blogger 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 often get in the way.
View all posts by Shun P. Writes
Shun P. Writes... dot com 