Easter Sunday 2

He’s so old now I can

Feel the graveyard on him.

There’s nothing left

Of what once made him him.

Deep inside, his genes

Are frayed like a bootlace

Beaten on a wall.


One day I pray that lace will snap

So I can face it like a man

Before its just a bunch of frail hairs

Murmering

And munching on his soup spoon.

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