After Burning Burning Out

I saw them bury empty carcasses
of men in gluttonous earth with no regard
for the hearts once bespattered with their lives.

I was solemn
from the ascension
of variously colored souls,
men meeting God
in a bleeding hope,
and I groped,
in what seemed dark,
for a corpse to hold,
and I urged life,
prayed life,
with spirit laid on hands
and watched wounds open
to the searing eyes
they had hidden from.

I saw them glowing by the light of cedar
crosses, their silhouettes becoming res-
urrection on the boulder rolled away.

With suitcases
full of changes,
they left the week behind,
becoming, again,
the dead they were before,
and I wanted, harshly,
to grip their faces
with hypocritical hands
and shake them out
like a trampled rug.
What was it for
if not for real?
But I watched
the living
accept a path of death
not even placed before them.

I saw them shining like transfigured Jesus
on mountains each their own, refusing descent
when already they had fallen off.

In the end,
they dragged their soles
across the concrete
in apathy,
and I thought
what's not to care about?
So I stood,
my feet yoking with concrete,
utterly unaccepting
and, eventually, uncaring.
As I looked
up from the pit
I had fallen in,
I realized it was my own
and the death
that hung on their faces,
gripped at mine.

I saw myself marching with them into
graves pre-labeled, one for each, a dis-
tant look upon my face from falling short.