Courtesy of Others ~
To Death, Who I Visit Often
Mother, I come before you, ashen and unsteady,
Not to find my rest, but to mourn.
I mourn who I once was.
I mourn what could have been.
I mourn those who have no mourners.
I mourn lives lost to madness and violence.
I mourn broken glass and forgotten stories.
I mourn the rabbit caught by the fox
And the proud grain cut down.
When I began, I knew just what I was mourning.
Each year that passes, I know less
And yet I come before you, year after year.
I come with offerings and song,
Marked as one of your children
And I mourn.
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