Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Doctor,

your mask askew, the

perennial nature of your craft

laid down in the poppy dens,

between streetlamps, before

the vermilion crosshatch affixing our door

Death, a chapter closed,

settled in your lungs,

your legacy, blooming,

gives of itself freely,

a posy, a remedy, pinned to black,

keeps vigil over your memory,

the red-caps, filling the pews,

give mass,

fear, the wasting of a soul,

obfuscated,

denies them nothing