A stone to
seal an entrance,
asserting
the boundary between the living
and the
dead.
Linen
cloths to bind a corpse,
cold lips
hidden within coarse fabric;
no longer
can they speak their words of love.
A hundred
pounds of myrrh and aloes
to weigh a
body down,
to keep it
from floating off
into
mythical certitude;
or
uncertainty, if you prefer.
On Friday,
with the setting of the sun,
light is
overcome by the darkness
as a man
is laid in his tomb.
Death's
accoutrements
determinedly
underline the tears,
the
despair,
and the
apparent finality:
it is
finished.
© Ken Rookes. 2015
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