My Funeral Procession Poem by Valsa George

My Funeral Procession

Rating: 5.0

Darkness encompasses my space
My future seen bleak, feral beasts hide
Not even a glow worm to throw light
I see no chance of deliverance.
Through the mazy depths of gloom, I wade
Struck with the pestilence of rejection and hate

Hopes are now like shredded threads
Frayed away from a rope
I seek shade under a leafless tree
I hold on to a crutch as a prop
I curl up like a helpless embryo
Floating and swivelling in lucid agony

Shutters of distress is about to close in
Before that, I will my own death
In the absence of pall bearers
I shall carry my orphaned corpse
And walk the deserted road
Inching my way to the grave

Thursday, February 25, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: darkness,death,despair
Trying to imagine how it would be!
Bri Edwards 25 February 2016

shredded threads...........i like the sound of that maybe shutters of distress ARE....? hee-hee :) through 2 stanzas it rates a 'to MyPoemList' Before that, I will my own death you mean that you 'desire', or 'cause' your own death? ? a very fascinating poem to be sure. i'd like to see the movie! ! ! not about you, i presume. another quick read of it and it goes to MyPoemList. bri :) p.s. if i had a glow worm (to spare) i'd let you borrow it. mine: Fun-Eral....... [my Funeral; Relatives; Life And Death; Fun] by Bri Edwards

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Tirupathi Chandrupatla 25 February 2016

When death arrives, all imagination will stop. Nothing will matter at that time. It is only when alive that we imagine everything. Let the feeling be not so gloomy. There are those whom you helped knowingly or without knowing. Good feelings will float from there. Let the power in your poem not carry the reader toward darkness and despair.

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Hans Vr 25 February 2016

Deep thoughts and imagination. Grief may not be ours at that time anymore. Elisabeth Kubler Ross is perhaps one of he most interesting authors on the topic. She was talking to thousands of people who were about to die and she thought that openly talking about death with the dying worked liberating for them. Books about near death experiences are different still. All of us will die in the not too distant future. but perhaps our best poems will be still alive, more than a hundred years from now. Thought provoking poem!

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Nosheen Irfan 26 February 2016

Hopes are now like shredded threads....I seek shade under a leafless tree....I curl up like a helpless embryo...These images convey a sense of despair n darkness beautifully. Walk the deserted road...inching my way to the grave...death is a lonely journey n you have put this fact in such wonderful imagery. A very difficult topic to write on but you pull it off with great expression n depth. Full marks.

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Souren Mondal 26 February 2016

It is difficult to write about death, it is even more so write about one's own death.. But to write about the funeral of one's own? ? That to me, seems to be most difficult thing that an artist can pull off... The imagery here is fascinating, and so is the tone of the poem.. This is a masterpiece Valsa ma'am... Thank you for sharing...

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Kumarmani Mahakul 02 August 2018

A highly imaginative poem touchingly executed. It is really a brilliant poem on death and despair. The last Stanza' says it's deepness. Thanks for sharing.10

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Edward Kofi Louis 23 July 2016

Hopes are now like shredded threads! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

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Jaishree Nair 07 March 2016

Another master piece to your credit. You definitely have a way with words.The right choice of words to give life to a very fragile thread of thought.Thanks

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Daniel Brick 28 February 2016

Wow! Wow! The double Wow accolade for a poem of uncanny power and illuminations. In your notes you identify your process, namely, TRYING TO IMAGINE. That is the only way, short of divine revelation, for us to experience something OUTSIDE our frame of reference. Ingmar Bergman's film Wild Strawberrries opens with a dream in which an old man sees his funeral procession, but Bergman was working with visual images - immediate sensations. You have worked through language to make the invisible realm temporarily visible, and then it closes and once again seems impervious. But for the moment of the poem - what Hart Crane called, an instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled) - we see clearly the landscape of death.

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Navod Dilhara 27 February 2016

You have a quite extraordinary imagination upon the principle of Death. And this pom conveys your true expressions towards it.great!

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