In Passing

What is it?

To wind a wisp of word or two

Around a page

In honour of some passing?


Would that I could create,

Fashion from horror a beauty,

A Modern Prometheus, from the ashes

Of your body, to clamber round the fireplace



But I cannot. No beauty found

In your death can be, no

The passing of your passage

Shall render clocks and whistles

Broken and the sky will shatter

In stupid sympathy.

The End

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