Clothes ironed
neat for the occasion
Not a wrinkle of regret
left to smoothen
Pitch black colour,
a night orphaned.
Shades of mourning
suited well to veil
the depth of sorrow
To protest as if
one more defecting
to the side of death
despite years of familiarity with life
A contempt bred over years
of being undead
Eulogies, index cards,
flowers, wreaths,
and humour well peppered.
Heads bowing down, out of respect,
to yawn with mouths unopened
A loving father,
a diligent doctor,
a doting husband,
and the one never caught
without a sense of humour
Many traits coming out
to the fore
Traitors lying in wait
for him to be no more
If only he'd been privy
to the love and respect
everyone felt but waited to pour
until the funeral,
May be he'd have gone
a few more years
If only burying the hatchet of hatred
and cremating disagreements dross
be pre-ordered years prior,
complimentary to the funeral insurance
Dying would become redundant
to claim heavens
And funerals dispensable
for fun real.
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