Poem - 24 November 2017, 13:55

The Rightful Funeral

Under a shroud of rainforest mist
lies still the corpse of a time.
The trees stand in a silent mourn
in wake dripping fresh dew tears.
The funeral is yet to happen for
it isn't certain yet, who will
perform the final rites of passing.
It is uncertain even, when it'll happen
if the funeral is ever to happen.

Funerals are after all an invention
of humans. And this death was
due to the arrival of humans
into the forests which only knew
survival, and nothing of possession.
But that has forever changed.
Thus, the end of a time, an eon
of simple live and let live,
of taking only what was needed.

Now begins the time of possession;
of want beyond mere needs;
of desires beyond just survival.
There will be discovery, revelations
innovations and inventions.
There will be the invention of funerals,
to mark and commemorate endings,
memorialize passings and loss. And
more often than not, forgetting any or
every lesson, an end might've taught.

The mist shrouded corpse of that time past
was never laid to rest, seldom is recalled
for it has never had a funeral; forgotten
amidst the possessions and inventions.
It roams the path of humankind,
haunting its footprints of progress,
a discontent, dissatisfied spirit, a melancholic
wailing wind of warning in its wake
seeking peace at the hands of the ones
who never realized its end,
never laid it to a contented rest;
who never gave it its rightful funeral.