Always From The Inside

And one morning
I went to watch
a man being buried
there, above where
the water slowed
Now with the passage
winters and
the grey geese
he lays still and
sentenced beneath
the heavy earth
cheated by Resurrection
whose fingers grew
weary and fled
like worms
swollen
with fever
and fear
But at least he is
still to be found there
near to where
the leaves touch water
the blood still in his lips
a dark ecstasy
trapped in the space
his heart had left
in his black suit
in the black car
driven away between the trees
above the river
the white church
it's doors closed again
always from the inside
the dust stealing
all the living from the air

by L.B. Temuco

Comments (1)

Its doors closed again, nice story presented in this poem always from inside. Beautiful one.