It is finished

A stone to seal an entrance,
asserting the boundary between the living
and the dead.
Linen cloths to bind a corpse,
cold lips hidden within coarse fabric;
no longer can they speak their words of love.
A hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes
to weigh a body down,
to keep it from floating off
into mythical certitude;
or uncertainty, if you prefer.
On Friday, with the setting of the sun,
light is overcome by the darkness
as a man is laid in his tomb.
Death’s accoutrements
determinedly underline the tears,
the despair,
and the apparent finality:
it is finished.

© Ken Rookes. 2015

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