The sky, it weeps
It's silvery tears
While I, I weep
My salty ones.
The sky is slate grey
A suitable shade
For the occasion that today
Is at hand.
I button my black shirt
And fasten the obsidian buttons
Tie my overly polished
Shiny black shoes.
At the church the priest prays
To heaven above
While urging us all
To remember.
We trudged up the path
Through puddles of mud
I was soaked to the bone
But I didn't care.
All that mattered
Was the white rose in my hand
Ad the aching despair
In my heart.
We came to a halt
At the top of a hill
At a freshly dug pit
Guarded by marble sentinels.
They lowered the casket
With a series of ropes
'Til it rested
Six feet under.
More prayers were then said
Over the dead
But I could not hear them
Or anything else.
All I could do
Was stare into that pit
That cold, earthen maw
That had eaten my father.
Then the priest called us forward
The family and close friends
And I followed my mother
To the edge of the hole.
My fingers trembled
As I held the flower over the pit
A white, jittery spider
Clutching a white, bloodless rose.
Then I dropped it down
Into the depth of the grave
Where it came to rest lightly
On the dark, lacquered wood.
After the coffin was buried
We retreated down the hill
And I could no longer tell
If down my face
Ran raindrops or tears.
