Today
we took a northbound train
Whose
end was its beginning.
We
went to one of our funerals.
Again.
We
ploughed through the countryside,
Restlessly.
We
was silent; out of respect, mostly.
The
dawning sun threaded the haphazard mesh of the humilis and
mediocris.
Eos
rhododaktylos was with us.
Fogus
impenetrabilis was there too.
Isabella's
dead.
But
she wasn't the one we was burying today.
Yet
she's still dead.
The
train was booming in and out of tunnels
Our
ears blocked momentarily.
The
night before the wake had gotten us pondering -
Alcohol
does that to us,
Great
disinhibitor nonwithstanding -
Ain't
we vying with each other
And
with-in ourselves
For
the exact same thing
And
for that very thing
Which
makes us human?
Ya,
fort und da. The rest is somewhere in between the blanks.
We
also realised, putting our glasses down for the night,
That
we had just acquired
A
certain kind of expertise on death.
They
say the devil attends every single funeral there is.
We
hope he liked what he saw today.
We
was an orderly, sobbing crowd,
Marching
solemnly, uptight,
Aligned,
with one step.
As
if we was an only man.
We
wept what we thought was the dead's untimely departure.
Not
the dead per se.
Our
kerchiefs were wet with our tears
And
with the mucus from our runny nose.
Red
eyes and bags underneath our eyelids.
We
wrenched our hands in agony.
A
discerning priest would've smelt remorse and sin a mile off.
The
taste of the host was that of lemon.
Made
us cringe.
A
truly poorly, heartbreaking sight.
We
chanted and prayed.
We
lifted the spirit of the deceased as much as we lifted ours.
We
knelt by the coffin. There was a hiatus there,
A
hiatus waiting to be filled.
This
hiatus was scarring us to death, for sure,
As
it was expected,
As we was sure we was going to have to have a look
at it from the dead man's stance, at some point.
As we was sure we was going to have to have a look
at it from the dead man's stance, at some point.
So
we redoubled our chanting.
Our
prayers became more sincere.
We
mourned and mourned.
Cried
our hearts out
for
the only viable reason there ever was.
Terror
does that to us.
When
all was said and the deed was done,
When
the last bell had rung and its echo had faded,
We
went back home-home.
There
we drank a full glass of scotch
Bottoms-up
And
shelved the day for future use.
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