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.
Copyright © Louis Solomon | Year Posted 2015
|