literature

Threnody

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Literature Text

The funeral bells ring;
I sing, I sing.
The rain starts pouring down
from the heavy clouds
into my hands
laying open
on my lap
like a pair of
lurid
wilted lilies.

The mourners begin weeping;
I sing, I sing.
The bruised sky grumbles
angrily at the
darkly gathered
standing amidst
the bright blossoms
like the forgotten
pillars of an
ancient cathedral.

The angel spreads his wings;
I sing, I sing.
The wind whips the funeral shroud,
wet and silken,
from the casket
to the ground
in a crumpled heap
like a thousand white
lilies crushed
at my feet.

I stare at my hands
two wilted lilies in my lap
and I sing, I sing.
Written in August of 2006.

***This written work may not be used, reproduced or copied for any purpose in part or in whole.***
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