once there was a man.
he wandered twisting caverns
without a thought,
swaying as he walked.
he came upon a button
on the rotting ground
and stooped low to pick it up,
holding it between careless fingers.
then there was a man with a button.
his ambling gait aimless
among crumbling walls of dirt,
and ceilings of the same.
he came upon a needle,
rusted but neatly threaded,
squatting to look and struggling
to grab it between nonexistent nails.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle,
turning endless corners
with a hand brushing along every wall.
he came upon a soft, dark shirt
and bent to pick it up,
noticing that, upon inspection,
it was missing a button.
then there was a man with a button and
a neatly threaded needle, wearing a dark shirt.
his eyes scanned the rotting ground,
holding the needle and button in a tense hand.
he came upon a pair of linen pants,
midnight black and tailored well.
he stepped into them, tucked in his shirt,
and continued on his meandering way.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants
stumbling through dank tunnels.
he came upon a pair of shined onyx shoes
and put them on without pomp,
leaning against the crumbling walls
to lift each foot into a shoe.
then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants,
dragging shined shoes through never-ending passages.
he came upon a suit jacket,
noticing that the pockets bulged with a pair of gloves
as he knelt to don it. he slipped the
gloves onto shaking hands.
once there was a man dressed for a funeral,
a man who was under the impression that
he had no occasion to attend in such attire,
a man who continued to wander infinite caverns.
he came upon a chamber
with sobered steps and saw a fitting sight.
A casket lay in the center of the room,
surrounded by wilted roses on the rotting floor.
then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who looked to his left and beheld
a veiled woman in spectacular mourning dress,
whose cold hands reached to hold his own.
her delicate fingers came upon the button
and neatly threaded needle. she surveyed
his garb and found the spot where his shirt
was missing a closure.
then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who, legs shaking, allowed a veiled woman
to expertly sew the button back onto his shirt.
a voice came from behind the veil:
"pay your respects."
his legs seemed to move without his say
to the center of the room.
he watched as his arms, no longer his own,
lifted the ebony lid to reveal
a beautiful cream silk lining,
bright against the Stygian casket,
gently cradling a man dressed for a funeral
with a mismatched button sewn to his shirt.
inspired by the kind of poetry that i call gothic funeral poetry (that's not its actual name) that i love so much
