ελεγεία

ελεγεία (Coronach)

So, you've faced more passings than persistings.
You're old. That much is stamped into your skin,
a mirror of loam after harrow's combing. Your soul
is brought upon the shore, second by second;
sediment after sediment, your vigor washes ashore.
You have grown owl-eyed and pallid, as if that's
the secret way to pay Charon. That need for coin
and jewelery is myth; the evidence of age's enough.
Yet, jewelry adorns your wrists, a coin is caught amidst
your teeth, to rust, erode, in saliva, to pay Charon-- someone

must have loved you. You first went through your eyes;
then your mouth and nostrils, ceasing to flare
and fluctuate. I heard your rasping whistle, the inhaling
through mucus; your soul slinking through, whooing.
Now the curtains move and scallop. Look at that stem
of a lilac in a vase. That counterpane's scallop shape.
Surely, surely, it means nothing but wind is strong today.

It is not your soul!