On the Pulse of Mourning

	On the Pulse of Mourning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Under such things I buried thee.
Giants who left glittering tokens, prizes
To be found and treasured; Gold with the Midas
Touch, all covered by the consuming gloom,
Lost in an aged, dusty tomb

Cry out you may,
But we sealed you tight today
Stamped the soil to pack you down
Stole your light, destroyed your crown.
Never, nevermore must we fear
The dead Poets of yesteryear

Other things near you we bury
Meter, Rhyme, Vocabulary,
Elitist tools, suppressor of the masses,
Deadly bones, maintainer of the classes.
The Pulse of Mourning slips away,
To Death we pray on this new day.

Homer sat on Ithaca's boulders.
Shaw stood on Shakespeare's shoulders,
But now we are taller than any of them,
We've buried deep all of those DWM.
Byron, Keats, Blake and Shelley,
Have Gray write your Elegy !

As Mourning's pulse shatters with silence
The Last Rite Priest looks to the supplicant
And says simply
Very simply
No hope-
Good Night