A day in the world of the living,  

Spent in memory of the someone that died.   

I didn't know him well, not at all, actually,  

But the day was damp and full of sad eyes and grieving.   

I awoke to rain pounding like a thousand pebbles skipping in water,  

And the sky turned sour grey as fog mixed with drizzle--  

That's what it was inside me, at least,  

a little drizzle because every eye was downcast.  

The clothes I had to choose were murky too,  

Black, dark, conservative--made me sad to view my reflection,   

like wearing pit-of-doom on my sleeve, in my hair, on my face.  

My soul felt heavy, sandbags dragging, shackles on my wrists and ankles.  

The church was old, had history of a thousand years.  

Of another faith which had also aged plenty--  

People kneeled, prayed in some language unknown to my ears,  

And then we left, through carved doors.  

Then we went outside, down the road,   

To bury the casket. The grass was soggy with  

mourners' tears and dripping noses and burdened smile corners.  

The sky was grey still, full of rain, about ready to burst like too-full tear ducts.  

Then there was food, lots of it, and 

we ate till our stomachs were swollen solid, 

like the dead when it's been dead, well, long enough.  

I'd skipped breakfast that morning; the gloom sort of made me not hungry.  

At home at last, a tender hiding place,  

my stomach still full of food and dread from rain--  

the sun began to shine through windows of sour fluff,  

finally, the gloom of the day coming to a close, click, shut the door 

where death still lingered.