formally arranged
cloyingly sweet
flowers of summer
greenhouses
candles lit
furniture gleaming
to honour the guest
resplendent
in Sunday best
lying cold and still
in satin lined luxury
head
on a comfortable pillow
tie and lips
properly knotted
eyes closed
with glasses perched
on the bridge of his
powdered nose
the veneer of eternal good health
courtesy of
pots and brushes of
paints and powders
waiting for friends to arrive
speaking in hushed voices
careful of disturbing
his slumber
he was a good man
if there's anything i can do...
they filter in
they filter out
tears love and platitudes
in equal measure
quiet music
devoid of life
and meaning
insipid tunes
of eternal rest
it's a blessing really
did he suffer
the blues of Brahams
chimes sound to signal
each new arrival
hugs and air kisses
solemn handshakes
sympathetic smiles
until there are none
she is left alone with him
looking down
a tear
falls on his face
a quick touch up required
before he rests in perfect quiet
but for the ticking of his watch