by R. Saint Claire
In our Sunday coats we stay.
A sunny day! When colored
Eggs and sweets we crave:
A visit to the family grave.
Up the thorny path we're taken
To the hill where marble crypts
And busts of men (their ranks forsaken)
Rest in shades of obelisks.
An actor who revered the Bard’s
Now dust beneath a stately stone.
He held his art in high regard.
For all his lust, his name’s unknown.
Frozen ‘neath a sheet of glass,
A child’s grave, and on display:
A bear, a boat, a horn of brass.
All wait forlornly by an urn
Through light and dark for his return.
White tulips on a verdant mound
Strewn with weathered, withered wreaths,
Push their buds through rain-soaked ground
Past tokens of a former grief.
Each year their pretty promise ends
For Death’s vain hope to rise again.