It's the funeral
and your old soul
has crept away
while mine still sleeps
in your hospital bed
in the darkest shades of
grey

of charcoal 3 a.m.'s where
the clock's green glow is
haunting
and the fading sound
of your failing voice
is teasing and it's
taunting

where the piano keys
are quiet
and I want it to be heard
that not a song is being sung
and silent,
are the birds