An Ending

the music  could be heard

the solemn count of the funeral procession

as it winds down the corridors of my mind

and halts

the methodic downbeat comes to a rest

when the coffin appears — lid raised

white, stone cold you look into her eyes

and exchange the stares of her past

and your future amongst the white roses

the march continues with all eyes

piercing your moulded form

as it is being carried away —

she remains all smiles beneath the tears

that have so innocently wet her cheeks.

She is all that remains of the parade;

a Cleopatra, Deliah, Lady Macbeth.

… the tears of joy which fllod the anxiety

the curve of her lips which released the sorrow

and not it has ended with this march and

me knowing that someone is glad that I am dead.


– Chris George


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