Funeral
'Twas time our teeth be
sealed with bogus lips, frozen
from the frost of tears.
Except for a form of
mourning, they were to
remain captives, the thirty
two of them
or less.
From aloft, we all seemed
black ants, clustering for
honey,
But our reasons for
gathering was bitter. As
bitter as the shreiking voice
of the
violin,
The tiring voice of the
organ, as bitter as the sound
of the hymns sung,
As the thoughts it bore so
clung.
Assuredly a melodious tune it
was, but our feets refused
to dance. 'stead, more
tears
watered the soil, dust of
grief arose, containing airs'
naivety.
'Twas the last of the gigantic
rectangle, slowly immersing,
the grounds imbibing,
shovel
scorching sands with
withered hands, bodies
swaying, more intriguing than
martial arts,
honouring its lasts.
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