The Tomb Guardian
Note[1]
Bread is scarce
But a new feast daily
At the palace of the prince
While the dugs of other mothers
Wither
“The dead fare better”
Cry the unfed, unwashed
Silk and festival
Fete and soirée
Obsequious
Cantankerous
“Your grace”
“We beseech thee”
For sum inconsequential
A triviality
When those outside the gate
Huddle
By fetid sewers
Unnourished souls
Forgotten lives
Shuffle
Scurry
Wrap themselves
Against the cold
But cold passes through
The blocks of the tomb
Harbor the cold
Like the ice in the stream
They rob heat
The guardian shivers
All these dead
All past
But I am here
To keep them
From…
No one says
No one cares
No one comes
But they come
[1] Thanks to Franz Kafka for the idea from his The Warden of the Tomb.
Philosphical Musings of Christopher Ketcham 