Wisteria
I remember when I died at twenty-four.
I was cute then even.
My girlfriend thought so at least.
We were going to be married,
The date: 19 October 1970 —
The Monsignor was free,
And with her father so devout,
It had to be at St. Peter’s.
I think back to the satin and laughter,
The smiles, hugs and knowing winks.
Now I, a fleshless grey thing,
A wisp of smoke and iron,
Cast sightless eyes upon this,
This! These miles of stones
Commemorating time’s shattered follies
Age upon age lined together
Moss now the solace of the fallen.
I whisper in your ear, you know,
Mumbling as you do the sad formulae of the damned,
Lay dead flowers on a cold stone
Dedicated to forsaken dust.
And I wonder.
Is this but some sad prelude?
A tribute to a god that demands in blood
The corpses of the young?
So we march endlessly forward.
Destructive Anachronism 