Candles in the Cathedral

Perhaps it is too soon,
for the body is not dead,
only the soul of that one you once loved
like life itself.

Perhaps it is not the soul you mourn,
but your own blindness
in never seeing what lay underneath,
in always covering the rotting mass
with flowers from your own gardens.

Perhaps it is yourself you mourn,
your innocence
and the peace that came with it,
and fled when reality could no longer be ignored
as risk of yet another soul –
your own.

Perhaps it is too soon, or too late,
but you know this, the mourning is real
and until it is released,
until the last candle burns
and flickers its smoke heavenward,

you will never be free
to live again.

About this poem

We make mistakes. We are blinded by love, or our past or our hopes. We pay a price. We mourn. And until we mourn fully, we are still captive to the loss.

I have always liked the tradition of burning candles for the dead, or for prayers, that many faith traditions have. Why not offer candles for our own loss as well? A symbol of mourning…. and release.

The picture is an experiment. A digital painting of one of my photographs.

Tom