The Crypt

The roll of the dead

Flickers past my gaze

From behind a frosted face.

As hunkered down

Over balanced book; with pen in hand

I try to fill the blanks.

And row by row

The names go by

Till all become a blur.

And vexed am I with

Folks of yore who named

All their children

"Nicholas" or "Ruth."

Till cramped of hand

And froze of neck

I curse the dread disease

That brought me here

To this dull crypt

To while away the hours.

© 2-10-95 C.E. Carl

© rev. 1-16-96 and 2-15-96

© rev. 6-2-15 C.E. Carl Elias

Photo by Pixabay