Opus No.2 Requiescat In Pace Poem by Damien Kaniewski

Five hundred miles to kneel in bitter November snow,
silence pierced abruptly, by magpie's chattering screech,
naked oak fingers rattling a chorus of disapproval,

Withered bouquets, fast, with weathered sanguine ribbon,
nestle amidst the glistening russet tapestry,
tired gold leaf adorns matted marble of jet black,

Holding the word mother, on trembling blue lips,
sepia recollections, eviscerated by the butcher of reality,
quarrelling emotions, sporting stark tattoos of injustice,

The stench of mother's milk, turned to rancid butter,
icy pearls burning down scarlet, wind-chapped, cheeks,
prompt visions of her in a delicate white lace gown,
alone, cold in the ground, the worms feeding on her flesh.