Archive 03/09/10

   

Those Distant Stacks

                                                                  

Words surge to the furnaces' brick-lined muffles,

Choking, gasping, sputtering, stuttering to be heard,

Searching for an escape from the incinerating gases,

 

A flue leading to breathing air, volumes of sky,

A blue plenitude in which to recite their prayers,

Beg surcease from their awakening,

 

Petition God, for the articulation of their pitiful souls,

Quieted to crisps, muted to black ashes,

Lifting, like mysteries, epiphanies, into history's oblivion,

 

Without even a "shalom," whispered from scriptural lips,

To send them on their journeys from the furnaces, to eternity.

In the distance, those hissing stacks scatter their silence.

 

 

 

 

 

                          

                                               

 

03/09/10

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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