Our Father...

Three carnations land softly,

perfectly, into folded hands

praying, offering absolution for a soul

gone wrong, remorse with epiphanies

and forgiveness, anxious to mend

and correct the error of his ways...

the eleventh hour hastening

skeletal limbs into the inevitable fate

of closure for all things

past and present, leaving a future

full of doubt and confusion

eight-fold, and painful

to sort the meaning of why

and how an atrocity, such as it was,

could have been disregarded

by all until the last unfortunate moment

of life, forever silencing words

that were yet to come

and the peace, and the happiness

we all longed to finally own.