The Funeral

I remain silent. An etching of death carved into the brain- I cannot hear your sorrow, nor your pain. I could not speak, nor could I hear the pitter-patter of the soft rain, I could not see your tears hanging - those endless chains. I could not smell the sweet flowers which you brought, It as if they could have stinged my nostrils with dead rot. And no matter how much you feel - I simply cannot. So I shall wait - my tortured soul shall now rest. My dearest friend go, for I am without a hint of regret.