Literature
Professional Eulogist
The only dry eye
Belongs to the perennial pallbearer.
His countenance cold, even in Kelvin.
Pine forests falling,
Fields somewhere filling with his friends,
They're carving out quarries
And ghostwriting eulogies.
People wonder aloud what's wrong with him.
He knows Dionysus drowns more men,
Than Poseidon.
Venus takes more lives than Mars,
Walking on traintracks,
Eyes crossed like stars.
Hoods up,
Heads down.
There's no ghosts left in this town.
In a real city of angels,
In a time called black suit season,
Death is a dial tone.