The dead beckon him.
It’s the only reason he’s returned
To walk the haunted grounds of his youth;
To tread upon desecrated earth
Where beneath the soil something wicked stirs.
He’s come to bury his father,
Along with the burning bag of shit
Always heavy around his neck.
It’s his burden.
And he must bear it.
His back burns
Scorched by scornful stares.
Brimming with blame
From a watchful congregation of wolves
Who somehow always make death about them.
Is the center of their attention.
He knew the man.
Interrupted by incredible acts of violence.
I knew this man,
A heavy dark cloud crashing overhead.
Full of anger and rage.
A lit powder keg behind close doors.
And though you,
Claim to mourn him,
Who refused to reach out to him,
Saw the scorch marks of his wildfire
Emblazoned upon his son,
And I’ve come to bury him.
And one day I hope to bury you, too.
I pray that the writhing twisting thing
Stirring beneath these blood stained grounds,
Rises up to greet you,
And stands you before God
In an awful display of justice.
At his words the congregation,
Rabid and salivating,
Snarling and snapping,
Baring sharp and twisted teeth
Rose at once to their feet.
Their illusion questioned.
Their masks cracked open.
He tries to run
But is caught in their blows.
What couldn’t be done through sly tongues;
Silence his conviction .
Do away with opposition.
Losing control to regain control.
Blow after blow
He refuses to give up his soul,
But gives up his ghost.
Like the shattered window of his life.
They’ll bury him with his father,
Swear to keep his death a secret,
In a funeral of lies.
They’ll have to answer
For a funeral made for two.