funereal
gus stills
Posts: 366
He choked back tears as he pushed the door open,
standing there, letting the sight unfold.
Shaken, ethereal, like you could fold him into
an origami figure & send him floating
from some hotel balcony,
watching him dwindle away.
Around him, the organ music fought with reticence,
discordant but necessary.
You don’t go to a funeral home to listen to piped silence.
He stood there on the threshold & thought of eternity,
what it meant, & then pushed on,
walking through the waiting room to where I lay,
presented like a store window,
dressed & unnatural.
A boy—his friend—shorn early,
looked upon through a film of tears.
He stood there, flimsy, broken,
staring at waxy lines, taking in the faint scent of sanitation,
feeling rooted in some inexplicable judgment.
In a way, the sole audience of an early passing,
cleaved by grief, shaken by
the duplicity before him.
He cried & took in the sight
without really seeing anything real
about a put-back-together body
deprived of its vitality,
lacking a voice to combat the organ’s lamentation.
He stood & cried because he couldn’t do anything else.
Eventually, he drew back to see himself,
unfolded & bare, a wet map crisscrossing his face,
trying to stand at attention
without wrinkling, like a paper sculpture,
crushed & thrown away.
standing there, letting the sight unfold.
Shaken, ethereal, like you could fold him into
an origami figure & send him floating
from some hotel balcony,
watching him dwindle away.
Around him, the organ music fought with reticence,
discordant but necessary.
You don’t go to a funeral home to listen to piped silence.
He stood there on the threshold & thought of eternity,
what it meant, & then pushed on,
walking through the waiting room to where I lay,
presented like a store window,
dressed & unnatural.
A boy—his friend—shorn early,
looked upon through a film of tears.
He stood there, flimsy, broken,
staring at waxy lines, taking in the faint scent of sanitation,
feeling rooted in some inexplicable judgment.
In a way, the sole audience of an early passing,
cleaved by grief, shaken by
the duplicity before him.
He cried & took in the sight
without really seeing anything real
about a put-back-together body
deprived of its vitality,
lacking a voice to combat the organ’s lamentation.
He stood & cried because he couldn’t do anything else.
Eventually, he drew back to see himself,
unfolded & bare, a wet map crisscrossing his face,
trying to stand at attention
without wrinkling, like a paper sculpture,
crushed & thrown away.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
indeed powerfully writtne and emotional...trully speaking inner thoughts
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key