PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You know, I surely miss Paul, that old Jew.

Each time our morning shift began, he knew

that this also signalled the crack of dawn

(gray, silver, then pink streaks across the sky

of Rome).  Then he began to pray and cry

(in such a way as I had never heard)

unto his god.  And (hang me!) every word

he spoke---to his god or to us---was joyous.

Nor was that just an act meant to annoy us:

rather, he hoped---hearing, we might receive

his faith; and with such confidence, believe

in his god, and a life, eternal, too.

(I did not; and do not now.  I fear death---

the nothingness drawn nearer with each breath.)

Then, yesterday, near dusk, appeared the dreaded

court clerk, with guards, to escort Paul's last walk

down that street; then outside the gate, a few

paces into the grass.  There, they beheaded

him, where three ancient, sparkling fountains flow.

That empty cell was his; and all his talk

was silenced in the twilight's purple glow;

The eager comfort that I often had

just sitting in his presence is quite gone.

Do not ask me, again, why I look sad.

Starward

[jlc]