A Wretch
Standing by the graveside,
straps lower you down.
I glance towards heavens high,
where solace seems to frown.
Broken and bewildered,
my soul has turned to stone.
I cannot accept mortality,
whilst denial fills my own.
Sinking into grief so deep,
loves price, for being born.
Death I curse and spit at thee,
A rancid rose bears thy thorn.
If come a day, when darkness burns,
Ill stoke the fire, in mourn you’ve borne.
By
David Kavanagh.
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