Obviously, I write poems. But this poem sort of wrote me, if that makes sense. Enjoy.
They always clung to tradition
As if that would carry them home
They always clung to tradition
A garden gnome.
Sitting around when someone dies
Covered mirrors, red, wet eyes
Clinging to tradition each
Clinging to what’s out of reach
A sob breaks out among the pack
Clinging to what won’t come back
Wearing black or wearing white
Fast in morning, feast at night
Clinging to tradition all
A little bread, a little salt
A garden gnome, a rock, some dust
Ash to ashes, dust to dust.
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