I cannot not carry such stoned, monumental devices with me.
And, believe they will avert the problems that breathe my air.
It is all the same.
I carry your tomb on my back.
And, provincial problems remain.
Dredging the dirt from my soul.
I find nothing is leftover but Christmas coal.
Still I shoulder your epitaph filled with Canterbury tales.
Where it is taught,
‘God’s only son…prevails.’
If only I understood what it is, you wanted me to stand for.
I could sustain your words…more easily.