To Die

I wrote this at my great-aunts funeral. Seeing the faces of everyone around me, ashen and blue from crying, I had to make sure I remembered.

The solemn, monotonous colors

Blend together in a sickly blob.

At the head of the room,

The people mob.

The polished brown box opens wide,

Bringing people to their knees and tears to their eyes.

It is the lord himself,

In a wrinkled disguise.

The flow of black thickens,

Flowers being placed in the hands of the departed.

Children are hoisted,

To see her one last time

For never again, will her silent heart chime.

The box is closed and locked,

Blocked,

From the prying eyes of the earth,

Connected with god,

Sharing his mirth.

The black mob will thin now,

Retreating to corners to sob and to mourn,

Thinking of their love and how she will be reborn.

The drum beats quietly

To the dead mans march.

The people with puffed cheeks,

Sunken eyes and lips of starch.

As the box is lowered six feet under,

Women reel, men sent asunder.

The grave is covered,

Kind people saying their final goodbyes.

She was dearly loved, 

But everyone dies.

Cars are driven slowly home

Because never again will she roam

As we go to bed, quietly that night,

We only wish,

Things,

Soon will be set right.

Such is the story

Of the dearly departed.

Rest in peace,

For you know,

We love thee.