T. Lake
  St. Cloud, United States
 
A POEM FOR POET POPE
  John Paul II In a carefully crafted mourning cypress box Beneath the Basilica ground with Michelangelo’s angels Lies the body of a man who was once a child, audacious author Actor and outdoorsman, priest and pope Not buried like a king in an ancient Egyptian tomb Smothered with the wealth of gold and jewels But holding only a prayer of peace and beads In large yet weightless hands raised up to millions Karol Wojtyla, a servant known to all the earth Lived his life and sorrows through the heart of his Holy Mother Loved and nurtured all God’s children Her blessings extended to those who knew his presence A hundred years from now a lusty grave robber opening the lid Would startle to hear the whispers of Mary floating through the catacumbae Litanies she had saved echoed in Bristol fashion From all the holy men in that stone brigade Wary robber in awe of holy dust and peaceful bones Did not a medal or rosary steal Reverently, he set the lid in place And slid his sinful fingers across the smooth aged wood Stumbling into the evening light upon a pathway Reflected in the eyes of all the holy saints He bowed his head and blessed himself As repentant vows were spoken from his lips Vespers of the Pontiffs with Peter as their leader granting absolution Resounded off the bells in the sacred square Rejoicing another day of work Leading a soul to the Lord their God By T. Lake
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