Death Needs a Shoulder to Cry on
Sometimes death needs a helping hand
As the mothers package their tears
He takes their shoulders to cry on
But flees as their light nears.
The children are a dime a dozen
hair cut short to their ears
Making snow angels in the River Styx
Too young to be truly sincere.
A cathedral stands entwined in hope
Its spires demanding fear
As you stand and look forward in wonder
Reflecting on all of your years.
