Conducting Our Own Funeral

Weary stones by hundreds winters scolded, so wounded
Still serving the memoirs of the bones beneath
Before us, glum they’re gathered
Assembled yet lone among a vast sylvan company

From this backdrop, which we made our pulpit
Deep sermons of solace we bring to the mournfuls
Those past’s selves of ours, hovering upon
The open coffins, not unlike wistful ghosts
In a wake for their youth longings

As the rite commence
Led by a somber silence
An invitation we bring to our hearts
To make the tears of joy and ardor
Belonged to the days of yore
Stronger than the ones we now pour in grief
For what we unawarely became

A stifled start shakes the quiet
That we evoked, absorbed in scorn
Coffins await to be filled
With the old winters vestige

Thoughts and relics from distant ages of ourselves

Times to be praised and greeted
With a worthy burial
A procession of grieved shapes and shovels
Now take place towards the tombs
That claim their guests
Each body faces its own grave
Raising choirs of laments
And a sough of eulogies too
In emotive entwines
Futile mundane prayers

We stand touched
Like statues all carved in pathos
The intimate being of ours
Has answered the obsequies
Giving itself to eternity
Here and forever
It’s finally immortalized
Within the latter years
We truly lived
A dismal concert of spadefuls
Giving back the soil to the pits
Brings the last farewell
Slowly we now leave
This overgrown graveyard
Fulfilling the ritual

We’ll be waiting for the time
When the ritual of our lives
Shall be fulfilled too
As we’ll join this graveyard's undergrowth