Simon by Dustin Pickering

in memoriam Simon Perchik

does dishonor dread the dead

as they cross skies of chalk and tar?

or are we granted unlimited fear

in tears unwept by hell’s sapients?

fallow as the felling of Adam’s trees,

sharp as frolicking fast Autumn breeze,

we toss dry rice into the hole.

pass to the morrow these solemn days.

hope comes of the grief, again!

the night opens to our silence…

skirted sorrow makes an offensive dross

across our misnamed perplexities.

we do not feel a final sense of Leaving.

as the faded halo heaves its light into dreams,

darkness is mere shadow of the tree. We wait.

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