Wicked Funeral

by Michael O'Connor

Pale, quiet lines assemble
In muffled morning air,
In collection to celebrate
Woeful loss and despair.
Somber men seek solace
From a solitary fear,
That but from heaven’s grace
Tis they that will lie there.
“Wicked, wicked death, be gone.
You’re not welcome here!”
But it sits like a cool shadow
In a lonely corner chair,
Ignoring the pleas of mourners,
Mourners everywhere.