"sobs are not prayers"
the burial place & final home
of my father's ashes
is an endless tundra
of dotted dashes
a plague of plaques
and headstones
I wonder
at the volume of tears shed
watering both weeds
and plastic roses equally
their gaudy colours
once bright now faded
like the bones and ashes
of the once was person
whose grave they mark
loved ones lie deep
feeding the dug ground
along side the worms
and slaters alike
all washed by the same
salted river of stolen tomorrows.

J.C.

(many thanks to my friend & gifted scribe, "Liliths ghost" for the title and 1st line, and also the inspiration ).