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Mourning for Dylan

"After the first death, there is no other."
Least not for the daughters and sons wrapped
gently by earth's cool cocoon

Those left near the mounds, gaunt and quiet,
return time again, sinful and sorry, angry
at the fury of life, the rate at which it burns.

Theirs are guilty deaths of continuation, a chalice
of blood and fire, sustenance for fornication,
vigor and nightly schemes. Yet, here, among grassy

Fields and weeping angels, a silent empty penance
must be paid. While corpses rot below, they murmur
supple hopes and fumble with shadows, knowing deaths

To come, least not their own. No, Dylan, your first
death was far before the grave. Mourning is a pause
and timid acceptance of the many deaths yet to come

Least not your own.

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