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Flounce

cozy urns fuzzy coffin
antique rosier beads
syrupy divine tears
leisure mourners
grieve on cue

concrete beds splintered sofa
worthless plastic trinkets
curded sacrament wine
maniac revelers
swoon on cue

— IKnowNoBox, Jan 15, 2009

About This Poem

About the Author

Region, Country: East Coast, USA

Favorite Poets: Weird Elf, Shel Silverstein, The Poet Anonymous

More from this author

Critiques

R

rosemary

17 years 4 months ago

False Prophet

Beware of false prophets... ;) It's amazing how far we humans can travel from - or to find - the divine, rather than looking within, where it was all along... This poem leaves a saccharine aftertaste. Well done! -Rosemary Quite contrary Now get out of my garden
I

IKnowNoBox

17 years 4 months ago

Thank You RoseMary

Some do tend to invest all their soul in ritual, in moderation it is a good way to mourn properly, rather then perpetual grief. I have a variation for the last two verses. In ink, Dabbler
infinite_dwarf

infinite_dwarf

17 years 4 months ago

David

Rosemary hit the nail on the head, was thinking the same, and she voiced it first. It reminded me of a service I went to once - all the people started off 'normal' and ended up in a frenzy. Hands went up, two different songs were being sung, it was amazing! I wonder who would call that being caught up in the moment, and who would call it a 'personal performance' Nice writing, David, especially liked the clipped style of words. ~Jess K. ---------------------------------------------------- -"And he talks to the river of lost love and dedication And silent replies that swirl invitation Flow dark and troubled to an oily sea A grim intimation of what is to be" - Pink Floyd
I

IKnowNoBox

17 years 4 months ago

I have been to two funerals.

my first was my Grandmas, She was cremated, and her ashes were laided at the head of my Grandpa. We had a sarcastic moment, it broke my tears. I have attended a Carney funeral, tight eyed men broke into tears by a Roast to the departed.. The funeral Industry is a Fraud, with few Notable Exceptions. The line for pomp is easily crossed. Somehow the ritual loses the Rite of Passage it was intended for. Perhaps turning instinctual mourning, into grief. I modest send off is all I ask. Thank you Jess In ink, Dabbler