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 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------