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Poetry

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Sonnet

by Richard Hendon

All these epitaphs bring mortality
to mind, raising up philosophical
doubts. I glance at the clock: two thirty-three,
you’re going to be late, as usual.
Above, a weather-mellowed gargoyle grins
inanely down, with no feelings to hide
as the solitary steeple bell begins
to toll, and we all congregate inside.
The organ groans. You pass by, shoulder high,
deaf to pastoral talk of resurrection;
and remaining equally unmoved by
this metaphysical insurrection:
There is no God. Only your memory
remains, ephemerally part of me.

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