Seventh Elegy

A mere forty days
a hot-weather Lent
from your diagnosis
until your death

And every night for weeks after
I offered prayers for you
in my domestic chapel
where icons grace the walls
with holy cards

of a hundred saints
where rosaries hang
from thumbtacks

Each time I prayed
grief would warp your blessed name
to sobs of incoherence





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2019-03-16 at 03:44

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
A beautifully stated prayerful lament. Sometimes, grief can only be assuaged by sobs. Well written Thomas.
2019-03-16