Funeral Parade

Will you come to my funeral?

Will you make it a parade?

For every word I have spoken, for every thing I have done,

will you?

How?

Will you mourn for me? Will you wear all black?

Will you keep a solemn face?

Will you make a show of grief?

Will you dance through my absence as if loss were ornament?

Will you fold the sky and tuck it in your pocket?

There are many things that crowd my head,

In this sick and twisted mind,

rotten and burnt,

no one can mend this; no one seems to see.

But I love you with this state of mind.

For all the faulty notions I harbored,

I kept a narrow space for you.

You never saw it. You had no plan to see it.

For that is the truth or for that I accept it as truth.

For every gaze, every smile, every gesture I treasured...

I guess I think too much of it.

The small room I held for you closed, quietly, without warning.

I never thought you could disappoint me in so dark a way.

You exceed any sane man's measure,

I can't bear.

You are wicked, a devil in plain clothes.

Can you blame me?

For every move you make,

for every crime you commit,

I will bury you.

Can you blame me?

I will come to your funeral.

I will make it a parade.

Can you blame me?

Look into your mirror and force the man there to apologize.

Or you and I, will wait and see...

who arrives first at each other's funeral parade...

where confetti tastes like ash and the band plays our old names.