Death and Life at a Funeral

I wanted to be there.
Right in there with you.
Who were those candlesticks
And their patrons?
Liars, tea drinkers and invaders.
I would have cast them away
If the cloth had permitted it.
 
There is something queer
About mahogany.
Its red glaze
Like blood, or was it wine?
They call it that, you know?
 
Many cried, I couldn’t stand
The hypocrisy.
And him, just looking down with
Sorrowed yet judgmental eyes.
And then the servant came,
They call him a shepherd.
 
His staff was there, curved too.
He fancied himself, a composer.
What a clatter of pity.
So many worthless mouths
And apparently, they knew it.
 
A fraction really knew.
They knew the smell of cocoa butter
And the taste of flat lemonade.
The others listened to each word
With bleeding eyes,
A miracle they say.
 
It was when they let you slip.
Leasing those golden twines
To allow for your engulfment.
That’s what it was.
I didn’t see you rise.
I smiled then.
 
I was given the dirt.
They said the ash was him,
I wish it was.
Ash could never play judge.
The dirt fell, peppering the wood,
It sounded sweet.
Far more melodic than the last.
 
They told me that you were watching.
I nodded.
 
Now I can see you,
I take you from my wallet
And I am one of the few
Who really knew you.
They knew themselves.
 
They gorged themselves on sponge
And drank for hours.
I wanted them all to drop
Like mown grass on Calvary.
Then he could look at them
With his bloody judgement.
 
I slept easy that night.
You made me realise.
 
Now you are returned
To grow like wildflower on older graves,
Not where they wanted you to be.
Where you should be; free.
 
It all died there.
The illusion.
A death at a funeral;
Two new lives.
Your natural immorality
And my poetic curiosity.