Morning Mourning
For those who have fallen
as the white wings of death
have come to their bedside
and spread their cushy wings
around their lifeless bodies
and took them to the room upstairs,
fit for Kings and paupers,
saints and thieves alike,
where the ranks of all
human-kind are blended into one
made precious by their falling,
their landing on a far away isle
where love is the controlling tone,
where breathing is a freedom song,
a casting into the skies of sacred air,
a pure part of the abyss, from a
scented lung of roses and life,
an exoneration from the
prison of the dreadful disease.
To the earthbound mourners
who had to let him go alone;
his lungs are now
more fit than yours,
filled with the purest
of the pure air,
the breath of heaven
in a place also reserved
for you in due time.
His nightly falling is now
in the hands of the Almighty,
the one to comfort you
on your morning mourning,
in sympathy for you
about your dread of death.
Since I have no access to the local library's computer during this coronovirus, I had to write it out on my smart phone. It takes a while, but I have plenty of time here at home.
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