The Mausoleum

By brian francis

The gravel grinds as you walk the path
following the ankle high picket fencing.
The path delineated clearly – straight.
the grass groomed to perfection,
with little warnings. to stay off.
planted beyond the picket barrier.
Reading the words and remembering
what was said about the other side
Woody said, “it didn’t say nothin’ ”
now that’s the side for you and me.

The building is cold, monolithic, quiet,
like a temple of old it is solid built.
Even soft soles echo walking the isles,
my boots seem to clamor with every step.
But no one complains their sleep is eternal.
Candles burning by a cubby like around a saint
someone’s enduring devotion on display.
I look to see if tears have stained the floor
as I stroll deeper into the temple of loss
finally finding the nook and the panel.

Staring at the name, I blur and place my hand on it.
The cold raised letters burn into my soul,
sorrow fills my being, and I mourn, I cry.
Here in this place for eternity; to wait.
Three generations and yet we mourn
when will the visits end, the nook grow dusty-
the tears stop flowing for a soul so long lost.
The walk away is somehow refreshing
carrying away “life” a gift, all the more precious.
The grass caresses my steps as I leave.


Copyright ©2020 brian francis

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brian francis

Born and raised in the idyllic environment of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. A rural paradise perfect for a roving childhood. Now living in the desert southwest, with a flock of parrots, a pigeon, and Three dogs.

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