Before The Last Sermon
Death rides close with gasps of yearning,
taking friends forever.
Daily they pass: touches and hugs and talks all taken,
gifted to the Great Dark unseen, unwelcomed.
Only a few steps ahead, they walk into the mist, veiled,
wrenched from the thicker cords of life which thread the days.
I advance one more row in the pews.
Before that last day,
I will snuggle near drifting parishioners nodding to soporific sermons,
holding onto their thick warmth.
Before the coldness of me as the next set piece takes charge,
they´ll nap to another thin plastic homily
while I lay rapt in front instead.