A Funeral of Dead Flowers

It was a funeral of dead flowers. A silent and solemn ritual it was, The wordlessness was not meant to strike A figurative note. Make no mistake! It was not the day of efflorescence. The end was inevitable and justifiable, Leaving no occasion for sighs and complaints. It was a funeral of dead flowers. On my little alcove shade lay Heaps of those once-upon-a-time-fresh flowers, Jasmine, tuberoses, and the third one without a name. They had promised me fragrance that would fill up The fissures of my soul. I thought the fragrance Belonged to them and was not like some fiscal takeover. But the white had turned yellow and the yellow was brown, I couldn’t resist that; I was powerless. Instead, I joined the requiem but found No words of condolence to satisfy their sorrow Or match up to it. It was hopeless, but then They never belonged to me, and neither to my dead father, And the dead goddess I had placed them before. We hadn’t signed up that humble pact, They weren’t a part of that surreal bond That the three of us shared; my father, my goddess, and me. But I’ve heard madmen saying That the dead share a secret that eludes the living. I tried to poke the flowers into life, But they wouldn’t just let it be. They were motionless and fragile like voices Muffled in a dark, decomposed alley, Or dreams ruffled in distant sunless patches, Or visions that could never really define the quest. They continued to look back at me With eyes moonstruck. I turned away my gaze. There was a tinge of pain like a slight but subtle singe, And then there was peace.