The Mourning

One's misery feels so like fear

to the congregation lined in rows,

black dresses and black disguises,

handkerchief in hands, faint whispers.

To cherish in plenty - yes, yes

But to stand beside the suffering,

it's quite nerve-wracking.

I mean, no one really wants to

hold the hand of the griever.

What can one do?

and perhaps dying is contagious!

Better baked goods and poinsettias

to do the mending.

And besides, breaking down is not allowed!

One should be quiet about their affairs

in life and death, these things

shouldn't be spoken of...

maybe a quick prayer and a hug goodbye

should suffice.

And at the end of the funeral

storm brewing on the horizon,

each friend counts her blessings

and quietly walks away.

In the morning there will be screaming,

the reality upon waking overwhelming,

a child ripped from its mother,

a caress lost in memory,

the mourning a gutteral yell as loud

as a train bound for hell.

But if you ask anyone, anyone at all

they will all say

they never heard a sound.