poetry

Funeral Procession

On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by, its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy, the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,

America on the Brink

Reichstag

It doesn't matter who lit the flame that burned the Reichstag down, only that it burned and so few considered what cremation means to those who long for proper burial.