The Next Necropolis The crowds will come, some in ceremony, waltzing through the sleet. Weary of legacy, they register their ambivalence. Candles sputter in rainfall; cadence of light misfires. Once the wounds are open they can only be stitched up to heal: the scar becomes memory’s tabernacle. Tonight, you’ll earn your own. _____________________________________________________________________
first published in madswirl
Brendan McEntee 