Poem: The Next Necropolis

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

Published by Brendan McEntee

Poet and critic living in New York near Long Island Sound.

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