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Written: September 19, 2023
Mocking The Dead Poetry Contest           Sponsored by: Silent One 
"Do not be afraid of death. Death transforms to something wider. Death is where it all starts but it is not the end." By Poet.
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In a realm beyond the veil of life's stage,
Once abided soul, subdued in a stalwart cage,
Lingers, a realm where mocking is a game,
Where jeers and taunts blaze an odious flame

Mocking the dead is an irreverent delight.
Brawlers and teasers, their twisted fight,
Leering and bantering with quizzical glee,
A wry, derisive dance for all to foresee

Twits and taunters, words sharp as a blade,
Swindling the defunct, contemptuous parade,
Ironic and insolent, fugacious whim so sly,
Teasing the languor souls who can't reply.

With vexing words and mocking tones,
Smother and satirize, sing akin stones.
Dry and derisive, their derides drone loud,
Contemptuously carping caricaturing crowd.

Derisively, they taunt with words akin to a curse.
Mimic their scorned, dead bodies in a hearse.
Muffled cries and archers of doom,
Fatuous funeralgoers forsook in the fume.

Inert and unconscious, a mortmain sight,
Characterless bodies, devoid of light.
Croak and mock, their voices nonresonant,
Feasting on carrion, their souls are malevolent.

Forthright and privy, mocking words ring,
A boogie of banter, a brood beastly binge.
Noncurrent and encyclical, their insults fly.
Sodom and insipid; they never ask why.

But in this realm, the defunct are not alone.
For a doppelganger drags, demeanor disowns.
Amid the mocking prance, worth does rise.
A dingy presence with elephantine-size

A chronometer in hand, ticking away,
Coating the shambles in an ominous display
The banshee of the dead, the elegist of souls,
Idly savvy as the mockery unfolds.

In the mortuary of the mind, epiphany dwells.
Gambol Imbroglio of this mocking hell
Suppositious whispers caulk the air,
Wobble of the contemptuous prance ensnare.

But the doppelganger, the spy, remains calm.
In dominion, the derisory dance is a disarm.
Lethetic waters cannot graze its soul.
It is inanimate, unaffected by the toll.

Schlemiel prance may nurture its stride,
But the spy stands, with nothing to hide.
For in this realm beyond life's embrace,
Mocking dance of the dead decry no grace.
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