Beckoned by mortal whispers of reality
itching beneath skin,
they come.
The line of cars stretching through
echoes countless
funeral processions
already paraded
by.
One last trick to be played, murmur the dead.
The joke’s on us.
Not the right type of day for grave-yard thoughts, though;
Technicolor gloss over our eyes
make it hard to think about the under the viridescent grass.
death-web
Our beloved mother, our dearest father.
Clichés exist for a reason--
we know not what else to say.
They stand and gaze,
(it’s what’s expected?)
force grave thoughts through their brain,
(mortality and what not and how swift life goes)
switch from right foot to left,
(a coffin jig)
mumble sentiments and emotions and regret
(but mostly just relief).
Faded flowers tossed,
replaced by those intent on distracting death:
to remind him,
keep him content with his grave-yard trophy room.
They’re not ready for him to come hunting once more.
They pay their dues and leave.
Bone fingers sneak from the ground cracks,
scrape their thoughts,
leave only a scratch—
outside the stone wall lies imminent immortality.
And when they themselves are dead and buried,
they will be resurrected
for but a brief grave visit
by those carrying the immortality the dead themselves
used to have.
But the dead memories will be tossed back into the coffin quickly enough,
covered up with dirt and happier thoughts,
for the stench of death that clings to them is
too heavy
too distressing
too real
to be given much thought by those juicing the freshness from
life.
