Epitaph
He Never Flinched
cold chiseled in heraldic
style
asymmetrical threesome
of cherubim,
your garden variety
wreath of putti
hovering dejectedly in the
vicinity,
each of them
a loitering little Buddha
riding the wave
of those remarkable paired
centered dates:
embarkation weary
from the relentless yearly
celebration
termination grimly
determined to adhere to
the facts,
the whole Megillha
on the verge of collapse
when the Buddha’s
put their foot down;
six jaundiced eyes
rolling in unison
at the pure fiction
of the premise.
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