Here, we celebrate a life. We say that it's a new
beginning, and then we weep.
Here, we discover clarity again, as snowflakes coat a
coffin lid - each one unique as if to say they
were crafted, fearfully, demonstrating
that love is meticulous.
Some here are stoic, their faces washed
with unfeeling while other faces exude sorrow.
I see sadness and apathy juxtaposed like
opposites on a color wheel and wonder
why this place seems monochrome.
Violins begin sweeping the air of its solitude.
A snowflake song beats cold in my bones
with notes that pinch a morphine drip,
which begs the question "why". Why doesn't the
cold make me numb, this time?
We try to crumble like statues, here, but these
statues carry flesh and blood. Their ears hear,
their minds think, and their skin feels that
iron-jawed bite, that Siberian chill...
Snowflakes coat a coffin lid. Here, we speak
euphemisms. We celebrate a life and call
it a new beginning, but we also weep at
the contradictions. As snowfall covers
the coffin lid, violins weave a snowflake
song with notes that open wounds like surgery,
and it begs the question "why". Why do my
feet feel nothing while my heart feels everything?