the music could be heard
the solemn count of the funeral procession
as it winds down the corridors of my mind
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