Some people are shadow people, never
feeling sun upon their pale countenance
as too much warmth might melt the grease
paint and black eyeliner and lipstick that
gives them their identity and the longing
for that other more pensive world of
beauty and repose that awaits us all at the
end of life's parade.
Once there was a time for bright balloons
on twisted cotton strings that bobbed and
wove above the heads of smiling, happy
children, skipping upon the green grass
near the rainbow lake of cotton candy and
popped corn in boxes that quietly hinted
of shiny, wooden coffins that would one
day, carry away their dreams.
Old lace and dark purple capes and hats
make somber remarks that bring a fullness
of the breast as metal buckles and studs
bring back fleeting memories of days
gone by as the guttering candles burn low
in the undertaker's parlour where the
people of the night swirl in through cut
glass doors in black cloaks lined with red
satin held by a sting tie at their throats.
The tapping of walking canes with silver
and ivory tips accent the breathy organ
notes that melancholy through the hall of
dreams and grease paint where love and
lust live no more. A lone, cold dragonfly
broach, glistening upon the breast of a
loved one passed, eyes closed in a sweet
repose that welcomed the darkness and
awaited the astral winds to guide them to
the cold rainbow pools that glisten in the
moonlight of that neither shore that awaits
patiently in the far mist.
Top hats and somber bonnets with wilted
roses were the color of the day when the
parade halted and the drummer's parody
ceased to caress the cloistered, white skin,
marking the stilling of a fair heart stopped
from lack of desire to march further. Soft
whispers and nods were the order of the
evening, much being said with furtive
glances and the opening and closing of
funeral fans, behind which a singular tear
could be sequestered in mourning for the
lost loves and broken hearts that now
must live on alone, awaiting the time of
release that the winds of night promise.
