Unpublished pieces

Only the graveyard holds the truth. Plastic
flowers left on freshly turned soil hides the

guilt of the mourners. They came and paid
their respects in dress of black and solemn

while inside they were glad they were not
the ones who had died. Words of false

sympathy replaced the honest human touch
of reality. The coffin was shut and the sigh

of relief was pregnant upon the funeral air.
Leaves lie wet and heavy in the mud of the

mind where puppets mocked the trends
of society. We were at a death, and we knew

the end was nigh so we cried in tears of
empty promises. Our faces glistened in pain

that we had manufactured before entering the
room. Death is the great beginning of truth.

Such truth is left to the eye of the beholder and
with that I behold that we fell asleep before

we came to face the mourning. I left my
card upon the table hoping that the name would

be enough to explain my presence. Instead of
offering solace I would rather slam the lid down

on the coffin of despair and rumpling my
mind in anticipation of the meal that would

follow. Food of remorse would suffice to explain
the meaningless glances that survived the

prayers of the priest. Father wore clothes of
clack and so he supplied the necessary

tone of repression. We laughed, but only
inside, at the lies freely offered as truth.

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mlevesque's picture

great poem!

great poem!

Vive le Quebec libre!