SB LACROIX

I’m surrounded by the dead,
Their memories in my head,
Their photographs by my bed,
I ponder what lies ahead.

Their thoughts through me seep,
Their pains ache and weep,
Their agonies cut quite deep,
My words through them seep.

My writings are their choice,
The whispers are their voice,
In remembrance they rejoice,
Their memories are my choice.

I must pen all they have said,
To the passage I’ll be led,
I am often filled with dread, 
I’m surrounded by the dead.

From my book: A Dark Quill