The Funeral

 They carried my coffin into morning,

a sickness whistles by in static air.

Rain solemnly drips upon their despair,

revealing bones under masks of mourning.

They scuffle along in black feathered suits,

their lowly brows upon lustful eyes

concealing motives from even the wise

until my burial bears rotting fruit.

Housed in peace, my rest in the scriptures,

loosed of what I leave behind by vultures.