Mourned Alive

Farewell to what could have been;
Farewell to the voices within.
No black suits or black veils.
No trying to hold back tears after a deep inhale.
No wake or funeral rites
After a passing in the night;
No flowers or wreaths,

Or a gathering to weep.
No past stories or mention of prior glories.

No teardrops on varnished wood
With six metal handles.
No clutching of rosaries
And dishonest eulogies.
No viewings with quiet weeping,
as silk gloves gently brush over the body.
No solemn sermons
In-front of melancholic congregations.
No horse-drawn carriages 
With black horses, wearing blinders
Waiting to carry glass caskets.
No pallbearers to carry the deceased.
No end of service crowds
That spill over into the streets;
No consumption of alcohol. 
No sentiments of rest in peace.
No crying widows comforted by men
With ulterior motives under the guise
of helping her to live again;
No crocodile tears from estranged family
And disloyal friends.
Alive, they are mourned alive,
For it inside that the spirit dies.
Do you not see it in the eyes?
Do you not witness the desolation in their cries?
Hear their moaning in the early mornings,
The dim lamplight cast against the awning.
Who will pay their respects
And leave roses on weathered decks?
Who will mourn them?
Are they not deserved of tears?
Are they not deserved of flowers
In a beautiful array of colors

Weaved within neat and well made wreaths?
See them lying there in stillness,
Eyes closed and adorned in tattered garments.
Weep in solemn reflection

With inflections of misery within your lament.
A song is sung after the final bell is rung;
A song is sung after the final bell is rung.

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