The Customary Things We Do

Is it not fallacious

To call

That which causes

So much pain

And spills

So many tears

By one word?

Funeral.

This sacred ceremony for the fallen.

Unforgiving to the living.

A pair of constricted pupils

A ballistic limbic system

And a face of familiar agony.

A heterogeneous hurt

In rows of plastic chairs

Overlooking a wooden coffin.

And asking

Why this?

Why him?

Why now?

Dear God why me?

And the dead,

Burdening us with his absence,

Ask

Nothing.

His asking days are over.

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