Mourning Poem by Eric Cockrell
Mourning
we who sit at the feet of angels
and drink alone, the bitter truth...
with no hand to hold against the night,
no kindred spirit, no flame of hunger.
we speak, there is no answer,
only the waiting that sweats & weeps.
the formless bound in a thousand faces
each yearning to be held, and named.
we who sit at the feet of angels...
and drink alone...
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4/23/2024 9:25:27 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Your poem addresses Mourning with the respect it deserves. You have to be alone is mournings deepest despair. However, we can take comfort in those who love us, and are there. Smiling at you Tai, thinking distraction in cleansing, order of the day