Funerals

By
Thomas was his name
Lays now, white lipped, under a wood casket
made from trees that never knew their fate would be as such.
Masking in and entrapping the torment of a dead man
With an open ear.
The song plays, his name is said, missing the silence of the h in Thomas
But he is motionless and if only his hands could move
He would rattle in his casket
And slap the priest
That dared cut his name short
By one full letter.





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