I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.

It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.

I am a writer and I've always known it.
Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired against my urge to pick up a pen.
I carried it around
like you carry relics
my pens.
Remained tethered to them.
I write now.
Perhaps because I am not a talker.

Vacuum
by Michael R. Burch

Over hushed quadrants
forever landlocked in snow,
time’s senseless winds blow ...

leaving odd relics of lives half-revealed,
if still mostly concealed ...
such are the things we are unable to know

that once intrigued us so.

Come then, let us quickly repent
of whatever truths we’d once determined to learn:
for whatever is left, we are unable to discern.

There’s nothing left of us; it’s time to go.

Keywords/Tags: college, quadrants, winter, snow, winds, time, relics, deposits, artifacts, memories, hushed, silent, vacuum

I'll remember our love
When I forget all else
You'll surely never fade

When all light's extinguished
Our love will still shine
Turning night to day

When everything ends
Nothing more remains
But this imprint of you and I

I'll one day rest in peace
But this love will live on
Long after the day I die

My deepest darkest wondering
Is my most profound fear
Have you forgotten me
Since I'm no longer near?

Reciprocity's expected
Recalling how you cared
This pain of remembrance
Would be lessened if it's shared

But if the worst is true
You've erased me from your mind
My fear would breed a sadness
And leave past joy behind

As for me I can't move on
I've tried to shut the door
My mind and soul return to you
And will forevermore

The pain sharp
Memories raw
Delightful joy so true
The feelings fighting in my soul
Call me back to you

As love's presence fades
To its relics I return
Reminding and rekindling
The passion that once burned

Yet

You're long gone
No going back
Time cannot reverse

All that's left
To soothe the soul
Is putting love to verse

The sconce on the wall
for crackling torches left burning for a returning
resents the assumption of infinite patience.
She's attached to an old brick wall;
not by affection, but by habit
and tools of the trade of attachment.
Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket.
The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive
as a tome of records, of laws of old.
The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity.
Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out.
While here she stays.

I have sacred relics
Buried in my altar
To sanctify my life.
I don't kneel in supplication;
Still they know
My devotion,
My adoration,
My fealty.
I am blessed.