Sculptural, Graphical artworks & Poems

At Charon’s pier

I see my mother’s urn


The sunny lake

of morning is full

of empty, tilted events.


I stand at the open crypt,

the cool muddy darkness

struggles to stay in it’s cave.


Last memories like

kites strings,

cut my aching hand.


Nostalgic doves coo.

Chaos of feelings

causes insect pain.


Crows steal long threads,

from the eternal

healing cobwebs.


Priest mumbles,

laurel leaf on his eye,

his pocket  jingles.


My sigh pushes

the urn into the

murky underworld river of Styx.


Three apes in white shirt

jump on the stage,

with  the strength and skill of ants,


to slide the huge slab of silence

back to it’s  place,

with a soft slam to anchor the  end.

Gyula Friewald © 10/10/2011

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