Perhaps it was in December or January,
When a greying mob member tumbled down the stairs.
Perhaps, they said, it was because he was old and weary,
They told me “Do not speak”, for fear I would meddle in their affairs.
They told me “Do not look”,
For fear that I would empathise and find, what a cold dead body could yield.
To look into the grey glass eyes of a wife abusing crook,
For I would find the last embers of a carefree child in the fields.
I've been to several of these before,
The monotony of incense crackle and firecracker smoke.
They dance nonchalantly around in circles, performing their sacred rituals,
Throwing dirt with their mouths and hands upon the dead and living.
Will they weep at my funeral
Or will they snicker and say good riddance?
Random stranger reading my honey drenched eulogy,
Why so cynical?
Am I the only happy nihilist out there
Oh, will you cry happy tears at my funeral?
