Putting The “Fun” Back In “Funeral”

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With weak knees and shaking hands,
Let them cry alone, sickness found its home.
So this is how grief looks like, I had imagined it’d be less familiar.
Although I should know by now that each person is a potential memory
Each ringing of the phone gives me the creeps,
Because the dying dances elegantly through the wire and gnaws right through my ear.
(But if I don’t answer it,) if I just lay here (trying not to recognize the clear tone of Job’s message,)
Will it be gone? (What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?)
The years are mocking us, singing their shrill song, it gets louder with each day,
But I’m lacking sound vocal chords to scream louder than their rhapsody of fallen leaves:
“We get born and then we end, get worn out and then we end,
We count leaves and then we end, we crawl on and then we end.”
A fair implication, I suggest. But without a heaven to spread its hands above my head,
It’s the best advice to follow, though.
I won’t admit my sins.
What I won’t know can’t hurt me, right?
(So) tell the white light I said “hi” for we have many mutual friends.
Now hold me as tight as you can
(Because I don’t want to be alone now) if in the end we’re on your own.


from COUNTING LEAVES, released March 28, 2015



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