Funeral
Letting the clock do it's work on her face;
Should have let it do between us.
Periodic layer of her frok,
Made no difference to her lifeless body in coffin.
But to me, still to accept my own shrill cry,
Those pale lips aspire to be kissed.
Love is on rhythm to sabotage, misunderstood
I've became what's left,
And gone is I who lived in her.
Agony is fighting all that I could breathe,
Her mother, Mercy, is biting her teeth.
(Lid closes)