David Sula - Poetry
Here Lies Symbolism
by David M. Sula
Rotting in a malodorous grave.
Flesh melts, and bones sublimate
to nauseating vapors. The crate
fills with fetid stenches and settles
deeper in the dirt. Wilted flowers
every shade of beige coil
upon a meager bed of stone
and weep their leaves and petals.
Clichés wearing crass veneers
of the deceased walk the streets:
storms, daybreaks, twilights, trees,
doors, fires, winds, and rivers.
Masquerading as cleverness,
mocking the dead who claws against
its casket’s lid, grinding fingernails
to dust, exchanging them for splinters.
It roils in the suffocating box,
as progeny debases innovation, locks
progress with tired ricochets. The clichés
reign and devastate the victim’s peace,
bleed ink, and stamp their branded wits
anywhere the rubber rectangle fits.
Stamp stamp stamp, like the hammering
of skinless fists begging for release.
Symbolism holds its final breath,
barring the stink of its own death,
grabs a thread and rings its bell,
but the gravediggers have no ears.
The etchings on the slab scrutinize
a repetitious world. With no eyes
to cry except the flowers left behind
so long ago, with petals as their tears.