Shuffling along, the old man made his way amongst the headstones. With a death sentence of untreatable cancer hanging over his head, this old sojourner knew his days were numbered, hence the added urgency to his quest. Somewhere amongst the sleeping dead in this concrete jungle there were answers. He was sure of it!
He shuffled from one headstone to another, mumbling to himself, "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? I know they're here somewhere."
Suddenly, there before him engraved on a headstone was his family name, the roots of his existence if you like. Sinking down to embrace the stone, this dear soul bowed his head in reverence for his forebears. Weeping, he knew he had come full circle.....
This is a dverse poets prompt to write a prosery of no more than 144 words, which must include the following line from T.S. Eliot's poem "The Waste Land."
'What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?'
Here is the Link: The Wasteland