"~Undulation" by Christopher Heisserer

Undulation

they are bowed, all, upon the horizon
a mourning congregation's last stand
grass around stone, their feet borne broken,
their names chiseled on their chests
so all will know

his tux blends midnight to fabric
with solemn creases on his face and shirt,
worn care and pained acceptance,
they and he a single object of stunted
spires, alone

tears are dew on most, but one, not,
wind bleary and hollow, its call
blowing solemn creases on his shirt,
face bowed to the ground, standing hunched
he is alone

but not; his face knows age and beauty
blessed with wisdom and malevolent thought
funerals are for the living, yes, the death
of surety, of the light strong and true,
he knows no God

they huddle around his sob-wracked shoulders
movements of futility, his heart is broken-
they know the symbols of a lost life
and his most living, is not worth losing
he is not alone

demons and angels, their breath wasted
upon his ears like the hollow windfall
wisps of thought only, a logical mind gone wrong
he knows them as his conscience and subconscience
they know him

no truth should ever hurt and all want perfect lives
with softened case and shuddered breath
they believe in him, but not him in them and this
this momentous exoneration blessed of logic
tears him apart

he has no name on his chest, but he wants one,
no grass around stone or posture perfectly straight
his eyes not stoic, but searching and unsure-
why, in this solitude, why, do I wish to be alone?
His eyes search sky

they the flickers of unborn thought, they the
inspiration of logic and trust and constancy,
they the... cloaked and shrouded by stormcloud
whispering in and smelling of cool on the wind
dampening thought

his hands wish blisters, his shirt begs for dirt
tux on the ground and muscles straining fulcrum,
he heard a voice, then, among the stones-lost causes-
cruciform, genuflecting, knees to painful marble
he prays to his conscience

with hands in the dirt, crickets choosing the chord,
a cry building in his throat and ripping anguish
this was his grave, but the name is all wrong
and the time-of-death a lie, and the quote not his
he wanted to die

they, their vined recesses,
close as they can to comfort him
the bowing congregation their square shoulders
blessed with parallel feeling from all
He is Her headstone

to delivery be swift, its chariot come
not quick enough for some, its reins taut
and adamant, blinding by day, silent by night
though all believe nothing, nothing defines all
its constancy a gift

he wants to bleed justice, wants to fly
through those damned clouds and stare at the sky
but logic and nature both break his back
and he, though wishing, closes up his pain
walks home again