Second Sunday and the church bell is tolling.
A million black ghosts hover around you,
Perhaps finding the choke of white flowers consoling.
But I know their time of wilting will come soon enough.

How dare they
Bring me here.
A silent scream into the swirls of smoky incense,
Filling the hall with scents of ash and our youth together
For me, pouring just one glass would never make sense.
So they tell me, this will fade.
Don’t force it.
Wait your turn.
But I’d rather stay in your reality than their lies.
So I beg them:
“Please, let me burn.”