“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?”
I can tell you where,
Drive to the church off of the gray gravel road.
There you will be greeted
By dim witted deacons and the dead.
Parades of pink lily slippers
Masquerades this melancholy sensation.
Surrounded by galleries of gravestones
Belonging to both babies and Baby Boomers.
You can visit.
Surrender your problems to the dirt,
The decaying.
They are dead,
Forever.
They cannot hear what you are saying.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?”
I can tell you where,
Drive to the church off of the gray gravel road.
There you will be greeted
By dim witted deacons and the dead.
Parades of pink lily slippers
Masquerades this melancholy sensation.
Surrounded by galleries of gravestones
Belonging to both babies and Baby Boomers.
You can visit.
Surrender your problems to the dirt,
The decaying.
They are dead,
Forever.
They cannot hear what you are saying.
A poem about visiting my brother's grave.
Request permission to use this poem