Les Passés Sont Tués

    Funeral for a friend, flowers against the marginalized back drop hovering in hushed fluttered pews.

The young men sulk forward in stress induced prayer as the weight of the world dances on their shoulders.

Watch from the windows the tune plays over in four, four time. 

Trauma sizzles in the noon day sun as vampiric nuances veil the spaces in between.

Where is the comforting numbness that bleeds true from the coast lines, and disguise as neck ties?

The movements press in repeat as the onlookers are caught up in the thrill of the chase.

Where have we wandered that we would rely on the shoulders of under developed spines to carry giants into a new year?

    The slideshow of the alternate endings play on queue as the doves fly at half mast, and the gallows that loom our near futures look on hanging in suspense. 

Harm being the silver lining that prowls in the brush of the forward progress we fail to make, and instead hold onto the wounds as if they are the last pictures we have of people who have left us for dead.

Trumpets call, organ moans, choking on the thought of leaving.

Trees whisper for a proper ending, and shuffles with the patter of angels feet.

The irony swells as our heads burst the veils with streamers, and reflective confetti.

Avenues line up in order, as the under toe guides us into forever.