A Poem about Death

To die, to sleep, 

Tis a consummation devoutly 

To be wished, by some. 

Some hate it, 

When they are alive, 

That is.  

The dead have not yet  

Gotten back to me about that.  

The dirge commences, 

The drum, beating like a heart 

Progresses the procession 

Step by step, 

Beat by beat, 

We walk amongst a marble maze,

Names whispering in stone. 

Remember them. 

We will remember them.  

Wailing willows sway above us,

One lifts a sax and blows softly,

The one across prepares his trumpet,

And in turn, 

They accompany the drum, 

To make music from mourning

And spin gold out of tears. 

Soon we walk across ashen fields,

With purple lilies blossoming, 

Among a barren desert 

Of tombs and salt. 

A widow walks in front of me, She converses with herself. 

‘Do the Gods remember? 

They came back for Persephone,

Why not us? Why not us? 

They came back. 

They came. Yes, yes. They did.

The moon is floating like a feather.

And all the bastards will burn together.’  

Hedges appear on the misty path,

Violins and a bass are ensnared

By the briars. They add strings

To the beat of drums

And the intermittent crooning. 

‘Are we there yet?’

Asks a child. 

His parents look annoyed. 

The mother mumbles to herself: 

‘God, if only we knew.’ 

We approach a river, 

The boatman is asked the price. 

‘forty quid,’ he says in Glaswegian.  

Gasps of indignation resound 

Among the queue of 

Men and women dressed for mourning.

The trees and vines don’t mind, 

They drag themselves across 

As our vessel slowly ripples the water.

Once across, we finally see the mausoleum

Perched on a scarlet hill. 

As the jazzy dirge guides the procession,

We finally arrive.  

The music changes. 

‘another one bites the dust’ 

The orchestral version. 

‘Pull a number to pay your respects’ 

I’ve got 72. Not bad. 

Complaining echoes behind me 

‘For Fuck’s sake! 150? I can only barely recall

The name of the dead sod!’ 

And the ebony coffin disappears beneath

Ginger grass.  

The meeting afterwards is boring, 

The wine tastes of piss. 

Everyone sips it like hemlock. 

By 2AM everyone is drunk, 

Even the cats. 

The exception is Yorick, 

No digestive capabilities, you see. 

The old bore, nonetheless, throws 

A magnificent rant about his barber.

Anyway, by dawn, 

We all leave 

The inevitability of Death.  

Thanatos locks up, 

Macaria stands next to him, smoking a cigarillo.

‘Till we meet again.’ 

We nod. We part. 

Return to life, 

Until we are called back to mourning duty,

Or alternatively, 

Are the ones to shuffle off the mortal coil,

Kick the bucket, snuff it, bite the big bazooka

And do what all living things must do,

And die.

Tuur Verheyde