To Death, Who I Visit Often

by Joshua Tenpenny

Mother, I come before you, ashen and unsteady,

Not to find my rest, but to mourn.

I mourn who I once was.

I mourn what could have been.

I mourn those who have no mourners.

I mourn lives lost to madness and violence.

I mourn broken glass and forgotten stories.

I mourn the rabbit caught by the fox

And the proud grain cut down.

When I began, I knew just what I was mourning.

Each year that passes, I know less

And yet I come before you, year after year.

I come with offerings and song,

Marked as one of your children

And I mourn.