Growing


The growing mound is

now empty of life .

The Spark has died.

No weeping or wailing,

No beating of breasts,

No rituals of mourning mandated,

Or expected.

Just the cleansing of flesh.

And the promise that time moves on.

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7 thoughts on “Growing

  1. Generally speaking, I don’t “do” poetry. (I always feel like I’m missing something. Like I don’t quite speak the language. I never seem to “get” it like other people.) But every so often I come across a poem I like. And I like this one! I don’t know that I get all the nuance, but I think I get the “feeling” of it, if that makes sense!

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