Lamentations

The book lay open on the table
its pages pristine, white and pure
he was to write in it; he is a poet.
Words should surge up and fill 
the empty space.
but no words come.
he saw only images, bright, vivid,
faces of grief and hopelessness
or blackened bones.
No words to speak, to comfort or to heal
only the sound of a dirge
notes of mighty lamentation
perhaps a requiem.
shall there no more be done?
wish them eternal peace