I stand and stare disinterestedly
At a cynical moon.
I have not the courage
Nor the breath
To howl.
I lower my eyes
Staring through the mist,
In the distance.
My sins
Hold vigil.
Huddled together
As if for warmth.
Maybe they wait for penance,
Or my recognition
Of their pain.
Too late, too late,
My breath and blood
Are silent.
Bury me not
In warm earth
Earth needs sustenance,
Not poison.
Sing no hymns,
Chant no religious platitudes
To lift my soul.
They have not the strength
To lift such weight.
Simply turn
And walk away,
Cursing the day
Your eyes
Lit upon mine.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn