grey yard

A trifle that just came to me. It is not so grim as it seems, and it is a vent sent to me to prepare the way for something I am working on.

grey yard

let me lay in the grey yard, hard stone and earth
making mock of the mirth of memory and prophecy.
a womb, a tomb, the dirt is my slave and saviour.
I am not born to be more than the suit worn
when I am surrendered to the worms for recycling.
I would run no more, but habits are hard to break.
I would cry no more, but we give what we take.
I would dream no more, but I am still awake.
the grey yard, grave and spoken of in metaphor,
calls to me from a distance, closing, posing
as a place of rest to wrest my illusions of control.
to cradle all but my soul, until nothing remains.
the pains of birth meet closure in the grey yard.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.