Does it all lead to just this,
a gaping hole in the ground,
sniffing but impatient mourners
their predictable tissues at the ready?

an all-too-practised priest in familiar garb
does the expected; his suitably tremulous voice
has the standard formality as he goes through the ritual
and those years of convolution spiced with some straight and narrow

do they culminate in this terrible charade?
Surely this can't be it, this cavalier show by fellow-travellers,
by small cliques here and there, sharing juicy titbits of gossip
- least concerned with the slowly sinking forgotten casket

in my heart of hearts i say this can't be it, surely!