The mourners sat
Around the grave
Dressed in black
To me they
Resembled crows,
An odd kind of
Melancholy to
Their actions
An almost elegance
But an underlying
Nature of
Anger,
Distress,
Darkness.
The crow in
All of them
Showed through,
All were on hooks
Held by
A puppet master
Who tugged
At their strings
And made them
Dance a dance
Of sadness,
Ready to fly
Fly far
Fly beyond
Fly to their friend.
Like crows
I could sense
Their anticipation,
Of the next
Meal, of the next
Death.
The tragedy
Was not so much
About the loss
Of her life but rather
The impossible
Realisation that
We were no longer
Invincible.
YOU ARE READING
The Loving Dead
PoetryVerse novel. It was a long summer, until she discovered the grave. The boy buried 6ft under. The love of her life. She didn't know what drew her to that grave stone to begin with. Before meeting that boy she was sheltered, never really focusing on...
