THE URN

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Breathless, pale with no blood

Seeing, feeling, it can’t

Stiff

Hard

Sleeping

Inside his temporary home,

A box, wooden, with intricate carvings 

Waking up, escaping, he can’t 

And he was lifted and into a stainless

Furnace

‘Till he was consumed to ashes

By fire

By the burner

‘Till bones are whitened

And crushed

‘Till the cinders

Await 

Their final destination,

The Urn 

The dispersal

Of the soulless matter

Into a raging river

Into the quiet sea

Into the turbulent air 

Or just at the stillness of home

Or at The Columbary

Blessed and stable 

In an Urn.

–oOo–