RESTING PLACE

RESTING PLACE

There are long strings of pain
which fall so heavy on the breast
the heart murmurs in sad discontent,
wavering between a sigh and a cry
of loss for us all.

There were lions of courage who faced the world
with no strings attached
leaving a remembrance
of Time when it shimmered and waved
to us with warmth.

Now, in the grass the plastic stays beyond imaginable Time
choking the land with reminders
of our presence,
never wanted, never really needed
anyway.

All around are the gutted remains of hope:
emaciated reeds, sickly threads
of fabric made from hearts and bodies
now torn and tender
losing their color and their capacity to
inspire.

When the lights turn off, the kitchens silent,
the computers and related tools die,
the rays of warmth from above
becoming deadly fires to take refuge below
the ground, where the damp is dried out and
the night harsh and sterile,
will the plastic bags we find
say “Recycle”?
And what will be done, then?
The strings connecting us in netted
graves, well below the regenerating Earth
will bind us just as tightly,
though with mummified horror.