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 Photo courtesy of Cornwall Cam

Catacomb

He stands in front of skulls
Hands in pockets he tries to hum
Trois θtoiles, a cross of gold
Hair dyed red and he feels old

Around his neck a fragile chain
He can’t believe but still they cling
To better days like flaked-off paint,
To the shattered image of a rebel saint

Behind him femurs interlock
As wounds are worshipped and feet are washed
With water from the pool of tears
That gathers in this cave of bones

His eyes betray a hint of fear
(oh death you never felt so near)
And if they knew him, would they care?
Or is it a saviour they prefer?

 

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