The Funeral

the funeral

Now strangers flock in feathered rows
Of mourning black, like stiffened crows.
The usher and the vicar meet.
They’ve dragged the cold in from the street
For eulogies that can’t be heard,
Assembled from generic words.
The hymnal wraiths in shades of brown,
Just serve to weigh the hour down.
Tomorrow, when they’ve laid the ghost,
The emptiness will echo most.

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21 responses to “The Funeral

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