echoing off the stone
that I roll,
I hear the wails
of her frail daughter;
the Kingdom will not come,
'til all such lambs
are slaughtered;
servitude's toll
is made of these trails:
taking many, saving some;
and though Proserpina's call
rings clearly to us all,
there is still one unheeding,
the only one whose grave
is neither shallow,
nor stinking:
her Mother searches on,
searches even her own thinking.

March 31, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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