Mourning Song Poem by Doug Stewart

Blah bip, bip, bip, Blah, you might ask, twng trll twng,
But a Prince among bah, bmp, bmp, bah deeply missed
Blah, blah blah, love, honor, respect brummp, brummp
God n’ mom n’ apple pie, triangle flag to do wop, do wop, do wop.

Sure and certain, words with no sense... listen or not, know the dead tell
Lies in stone and print, lies in word and deed, lies of intent and omission.
But the dead can do no wrong, passing now beyond blame, mutated from
Trust or lack. Their dark, glossy guilt can no longer stain them. The dead tell lies.

A corpse is a lie, the only reclining figure in the room, better dressed than most,
Lying there in mid-sentence, looking like himself, herself, embalmer’s art, dead craft.
More restless babble, but he was so, she was so, young, old, healthy, tired, spry...
A child in tearful farewell, a lover chokes, and outside a leaded window a raven flutters skyward.