On Yesternight Poem by Aimee Fyfe

It's going to be a rough day.
One where you could descend into decay.
But do not wither.
It's just a funeral.
That's what became.
It's not the first of its kind.
So I've been taking attendance.
Stacking the numbers against all the forgotten faces.
I know,
Processions pass without a sound.
But the clock tower still rolls around.
Did you know,
Disappointment wears the mask of rage?
And scowls can go a long, long way,
Etching lines into your face.
They will catch up with you one day.
So forget about your wasted evenings.
The moon is peaceful and it's sleeping.
You fell in love with their attitudes.
People changed their shirts on you.
You were expecting too much.
That was all.
The bow broke the strings of the violin.
The martyr said, 'No, thank you. This is not where it ends.'
No need to ask for permission again.
There's no word that rhymes with funeral anyway.
Can you see what needs to be done?
Let yourself be the one?
The wind is gone.
It left behind a match and a candle,
If you're ready to strike again.