The Mourner
Look now upon the dead
man’s face;
Can you not see the empty
space?
Deeds left undone and
words not said,
Seem bound to fill it,
now he’s dead.
Whilst he yet lived, time
and again,
You looked on him with
such disdain
And disrespect, but when
he died,
Remember how you cried
and cried?
Collecting things that he
possessed;
Your mind, it seems, is
now obsessed
With every word he’d
written down;
Futilities that made you
frown,
Worth more now than the
rarest stone;
Their precious beauty, yours
alone;
A voice recording once
absurd
Is memorised now, every
word.
Do you recall the
funeral?
You were the most upset
of all:
I saw, and as I watched
you cry,
I struggled with an
inward sigh:
Tell me, was it your
intention
To be the centre of
attention?
The face, there framed,
above the shelf;
D’you cry for him, or for
yourself?
