You are here
Whether your voice fashioned it or not
your last blast is caught in cracking rock
and as the whole world races by
they’ll see and pause in your memory.
I found your moan
in a book of epitaphs
copied from sadly chiseled stone.
You gave me hope
that a mystery was concealed
somewhere between the lines
obscured by cracks in the stone
which marks out your home.
Tagged: Issue Two, Mark Nenadov, poetry, Spring 2013