I Speak Of Death Poem by Charlotte Ballard

I speak of death in four lettered tones
Up against the window
Covered up with vine
Lies a rusty heart, abandoned, unwound.
Hushed daybreaks, no longer day
Coffins pushed uphill by reluctant suitors
Dressed in mandatory black.
The pauper's son remembers a joke.
He whispers it to the one in front.
The world dips, to the left and then back over
Hunched shoulders as softened shoes skate over
Clots of brown dirt, unburdened and unbound
Lines of no color converge
In a narrow angle, to leap there
With careful step, bowed head
No prayers for the sinful,
Not even for the dead.