Funerary Pyre

Weaving reeds of harvested fate Layering the sheets of time broken from their linear state Placing trinkets and fetishes gathered from the dreamscape traversed in order to lay to rest the wounded beast Men climbing every side handing the burial objects up in a somber parade The village gathers on the beach to watch the spectacle They all step up and take a whack at me One by one, all letting loose their own pent-up agonies Each saying their reserved three cents Dropping them in my mouth and shuffle on past As the choir sings the torch is lit A whirling fuse set into the sand it sparkles and exudes a smoky sensual air As the cinders fly into the mass of evidence mounting before the crowd it ignites My final performance, a disappearing act, it’s seared in everyone’s brains. Once the fire burns out the sand’s black as ash and there’s a slick patch of glass from the intensity of heat The crowd dissipates slowly in a murmuring wave At last, my spirit can finally sit in silence On the shores of Death’s bay

K.B. Silver

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