Meditation On A Sunday Morning (Poetry)

What is there left to do but mourn the dead?
What’s left to say that hasn’t yet been said?
We’ve had the best — those kinder days are gone
and some are left behind — we can’t move on

We’re stuck in that grey loop — we can’t escape
We’re constantly rewinding grainy tape
coiled round our days and nights — the present blends
into the past where memory now spends

increasing hours drifting down its lane
with those we miss and long to see again
There’s shallow minds tut-tut and say it’s wrong —
they sing a brash dismissive marching song

that’s all about the future — forge ahead
regardless of the blood already shed
they’ll make the same mistakes and they’ll grow old
then find themselves confused — out in the cold

So to the past’s small comfort every day
nostalgia’s weary ghost will find its way
picks friends to visit and old loves we knew
We’re chasing death — what else is there to do?