I heard the music once
a decade past:
a hard–paced hysteria.
It had me picture a wake at night,
a burning pyre,
voices in lament.
The music,
the full orchestra,
wasn’t.
The shock of silence
led me.
My pyre spat,
the lamenters’ voices scorched.
I invented a dead man’s face
and saw his living conflict.
The music ran,
quick marching grief
into the past.