Memorial Day

Come with me, O lover’s heart

And tell me of your winter’s chill

When love is seen as solemn art

And tears beside the graven fill.

Speak in silence of that night

Passion’s flor, but soft delight

Tenderness his heart in hand

‘Fore the call of marching band.

Then tears beside a fainting light

A folded gram: He died for right

And many other psalms of praise

With flags aloft in brooded haze.

Wilt in labors ‘neath the moon

Cradled a son for a yellow band

Tied beside his old man’s tomb

Nothing is left, but a little sand.

O, and a bit of wax, a tepid flame

A keeper of a stone carved name

A candle from that one last night

When love is lost in hurried flight.

So come with me, and tell me dear

A weighted heart, but still so near

A solemn day for those who stayed

A marching band that will not fade. 

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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