|Agonia.Net | Policy | Advertising||Contact | Participate|
|Poetry Personals Prose Screenplay Essay Press Article Communities Contest Special Literary Technique|
￭ s m i l e
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2014-04-15 | |
No one came to my funeral.
They came to say goodbye,
to mourn, to cry...
Dressed in black like crows
awaiting patiently until the first worms
shall make their way from underneath my skin.
Yes, they came,
but not to my funeral.
There was I,
alone, dressed in black like a monstrous raven,
nested uncomfortably amongst shiny cushions
filled with cheap fibre; hollow fibre...
They all came in the end;
where were they when I needed them most?
When all my innermosts were screaming
for anything to ease the pain of screaming
There alone, blind, wrapped in blood,
so unlike the orgasm which conceived me...
Dumb little sucker,
tossed around like a bushel of cheap meat...
Nope, no one came that day.
They were busy with their own funerals and stuff;
except for the dying ones, themselves.
They're all here today;
adorned with cheap, dead flowers,
choir of drunk undertakers
digging the last trenches of dignity.
Photo by Wikipedia
|Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.|