Upon The Eve of All Hallows {Sonnet For The Saints}
Stories from th' grave, speak their tales on wind's of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths 'an sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er th' steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayer somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice....cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice.....choirs with credence
Of Sunday verse sung by men....in black with collars white
Evoking th' fear of God- for when our winds of Death blow
Stories from th' grave......shed no light upon those sleeping
Still, we follow old traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to th' steel-grey stone, upon soft, unleveled soil
In hopes all these stories dark, be blest in God-Kissed Light
Still many questions live, in deepest sleep, with our Saint's
Perhaps somewher' beyond all this lay th' hallowed answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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