Tables of The Dead
The Western sunset, lovely by degreesHistory calls the waves of wordless armies
Smiling from all the rows of marker graves,
Years play their music like choirs of leaves
Until time comes to drift on into Winter frozen
Tables of The Dead,
An Eastern Sunrise promises songs of rebirth
No redemption is enough to fill the depths of sorrow
Still the rivers fill with lotus and the peacocks broken notes
Fan your ears with the incense of cacophonies signed in blood spilled on
Tables of The Dead,
While the wondering stars smile in irony their reflections
Stirring all hearts that breathe without seeing the Art between
Divine moments are born to die without being unless seen, unless
By the eyes of souls hungry for food that is more
Than was ever made to be eaten from
Tables of The Dead . . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2016-02-22 at 22:11
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