A Funeral for Two


The dead beckon him.
It’s the only reason he’s returned
To walk the haunted grounds of his youth;
To tread upon desecrated earth
Where beneath the soil something evil stirs

He’s come to bury his father,
Along with the burning bag of shit
Weighing heavy around his neck.
It’s his burden.
And he must bear it.

Upon him fall scornful stares.
Sad tear laden eyes
Brimming with blame.
Belonging to a congregation of wolves
Who somehow always make death about them.

Intently he listens
As the adder tongued pastor
Pours out his pain
In a sermon assuring the flock
That the dead man made it.
He was with God.

It’s his turn to speak.
Narrowed eyes follow him
As he walks the miles from pew to pulpit.
The adder tongue warns him,
Tread lightly.

I knew this man,
He says,
Through a whirlwind of violence,
By moments of absence,
In the bombs falling around my head.

I knew him,
Much like I know you.
Nails scraping  against chalkboards,
The gnashing of teeth,
The pulling of hair,
And the defiant detestable lies.

And I’ve come to bury him.
And one day I hope to bury you, too.
I pray that the writhing twisting thing
Stirring beneath these blood stained grounds,
Rises up to greet you,
And stands you before God.

Justice will never have come so quick,
Will never have been so sweet.

The congregation,
Rabid and salivating,
Baring sharp and twisted teeth
Rise at once to their feet.

He tries to run
But is caught in their blows.
They’ll do
What couldn’t be done with tongues.
Silencing conviction .
Doing away with opposition.
Losing control to regain their control.

He won’t give up his soul,
But he gives up his ghost.
Like the shattered window of his life.
They’ll bury him with his father,
Cover up their tracks,
In a funeral of lies.
Knowing one day soon,
They’ll have to look death in the eyes.


About St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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