Poetry

The Mortician’s Last Day

Let the sun beat down and wash away your tears
Lets the ground spark clouds of dust in your space
And as you stand at the door to the ladder up above
Let your heart be strong enough to fight your fears

Make no mistake
This isn’t an anthem
Or a gospel choir
Or prophetic words from the phantom
These are words forged from raw iron
Pounded from the wreckage of my derelict garden
As I pick the pieces from trophies
Discarded like scattered memories
I melt them
In a pool of bitter venom
Yes, I used the word
There is no escaping it
It’s like the black cloud approaching it
Like the funeral home dimly lit
As I stand in front of the coffin box
Wondering whether I won or lost
Whether I was cursed or absolved
Or did I push myself deeper into the asphalt
No,
It’s too late
To wipe away the scars
On my broken face
All I have to do is just stand
Under this molten sun
Say a prayer and hope for
Atleast one bullet in this loaded gun

Let the sun beat down and wash away your tears
Lets the ground spark clouds of dust in your space
And as you stand at the door to the ladder up above
Let your heart be strong enough to fight your fears

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