The glamour of a death when crowds assemble
women and men, who hide their eyes to weep, —
the prayerfulness of death, when organs tremble,
wrenching a groan from out their very deep —
Ribboned and gilded wreaths and marble benches,
where all the dead one's friends will talk so much
about their dead, until existence quenches
the sudden gap, — your death was not of such.
Nothing to say, in no one to confide.
Flowers that grow a-plenty on the lawn
where you have walked — I know those flowers sighed
because a face they used to see was gone.
Crossing the murky sky from shore to shore,
you came and went, a golden meteor,
and all that's left of my predestined path
will be a long and useless aftermath.
