Last Rites Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Last Rites



They say smoke from Beowulf's pyre
rose heavenward in wispy trails
emanating from dying embers
of a noble funeral fire

Today's warrior is zipped in plastic
and packed in wooden box
for shipment via United
plaque marks spot

There's the difference, you see!
We forget and move on ASAP!

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success