Sleeping at Seventeen

They’re singing once more, the monks of the small abbey
Voices deep and chilling sending shivers down my spine.
The air saturated with the burning incense as the large wooden coffin
Is carried in. Poles held by crying men, all looking
Broken. Slouched backs carried more than the weight
Of the large box.

Words are spoken through pained lips and glassy eyes.
Touches become comforting, and memories flash
Of better times. Loneliness is seen as the enemy here
As well as an unwelcomed guest. For loneliness
Is the reason we are gathered. Ah, they are singing again,
The monks of the abbey, foreign words spilling from their mouths
Filling the empty space. Voices so deep and chilling
That I hope he too can hear them.