Death Mocks Youth
The crow was cawing.
Perched on a tear in the breeze.
Weeping over the flowered wreath.
Whispering on the lips of a Lilly
and lingering.
The smell of the dead doth deafen,
when depression becomes divine.
There simply is no glory left
in the empty fortunes told.
A promise had been given
and forgotten so long ago.
Mourning and the bird is startled.
I remember those feathers tumbling.
As if teasing, in a clumsy manner,
the bottom of that six foot hole.
And the dirt did quench its thirst
Then I suddenly realized,
we were in the cemetery strolling.
I was walking and you were floating.
You asked me to stay and I replied
Never has death sounded so sweet
Wiping the sleep from my eyes.
Jonathan Peter Risinger
Copyright ©2005 Jonathan Peter Risinger
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