Prayer for the Dead

My soul in exile, I walk the streets
Slowly crafting a prayer to call it back.
The giant oaks steal my breath,
As do the graves and the iron fence.
The people, their eyes like vacuums,
Are enigmas, fleeing from their holiness.
I move about with all the aimlessness of dust.
Now dusk, the church bells resound.
I gaze up just in time to see a flock of birds
Fly over my head.
This prayer is no longer for my own soul,
But for the souls of the dead.