The ones who
sat and stared eyes of pity
upon me,
though I didn’t want any
made my skin
crawl, I wanted them gone.
Wearing a
black cloud, dying to escape prison bars, I
longed to
crash through the stained glass, sending bits
of lead and
colored window through that church,
lighting up
the dead air with a rainbow
of razors; a
shattered spectrum of saints.
I, entranced
in thought, listening,
but not. Tinnitus
drowning out prayers,
ringing in my
ears a sad eulogy.
Words:
shallow, songs: empty.
Choke back
the feeling,
a cold sweat
or light shiver down my neck
it moves through
the chin and lower lip;
the quiver,
the swallow, tears welling up.
It took
everything to keep it inside.
No word in English
can say
what was
felt between church pews,
dusty holy
books posing more questions
than they
could answer on my darkest day,
recanted on
his, anyhow.
Find comfort
in knowing the future,
like a
potpourri pendulum, it swings
on, marking
seconds as they tick by;
the fading coals
of incense.
From "Men at My
Father’s Funeral
BY WILLIAM
MATTHEWS
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