The Fiction Of Funerals Poem by Benjamin Feliciano
The Fiction Of Funerals
In all this world there are no traces of them.
No smiles, no laughter, no remnant of personality.
The dead have left us and can comfort no longer.
Their passions and pressures,
Their loving and loathing,
Their true friends and their faux:
All wither and disappear.
There is but one candle in Marietta's drawing room,
And it burns for one who can find no warmth from it,
Emanating but a small hazy orb.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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9/25/2024 8:57:49 AM # 1.0.0.1119
