On Form

Last Rites

Last Rites

So here we are, my friend: the bottom line.

Unlucky thirteen hangs above, inert,

a body bound around a rigid spine.

The deed is done. You’ve dug up all the dirt.

What epitaph to give this lifeless corpse?

What weeping words consign it to the earth?

No verse can hold back time, and as it warps

the bones will rot, the form will lose its worth.

    But if your words possess that vital spark

    of life, they might restore your faded soul;

    this final chance to speak, to leave your mark,

    can heal the scars and make your piece a whole.

    I pray, in time, your poem will rise again;

    make shallow graves, now, just in case. Amen.