Mercy Me Night Angel Production This poem is self-explanatory. My mother died May 14, 1999. I miss her so much. It's 2003 and I still can't find myself or my world ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THEY BURIED HER TODAY So softly, all the people prayed, a church decayed and dim, so quietly, the organ played, a plaintive funeral hymn. A box of highly polished wood lined with silk and lace, the coffin at the altar stood, her final resting place. And next the coffin was her child, though now a woman grown, a silent grief, raw, raging wild, the only love she'd known. The flowers filled the air with scent, the candles flickered flame, and suddenly the room was rent, a voice called out a name. Yet no one heard, and no one spoke, and no one raised a head, as scream in mind tried to evoke an answer from the dead. Then all the people made their way past coffin now her bed, and no one knew enough to pray, for silent living dead. It was this day they buried her, and everybody came; the priest said angels carried her, and heaven scribed her name. And quietly they said goodbye, but no one even knew, the woman-child who that day died was buried with her, too.© May 19, 1999 Ruth A. Curl I miss her so much. BACK NEXT Design by Whispered Dreams Site copyright © 1998 - 2004 R. Curl. All rights reserved. Reproduction in full or part is prohibited without permission. Milonic Menus are copyright Milonic Solutions Limited. Javascript codes, functions, grahpics and all other items of third parties are owned by those third parties. This page last Site-Map First Poetry Page 9-11 Poems Border Sets The Metaphors of Cyberpunk Sign Guest Book Text only site Poetry Index 9-11 site [graphics] Games Philosophical Models of Immortality View Guest Book Off Site Links
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THEY BURIED HER TODAY
So softly, all the people prayed, a church decayed and dim, so quietly, the organ played, a plaintive funeral hymn.
A box of highly polished wood lined with silk and lace, the coffin at the altar stood, her final resting place.
And next the coffin was her child, though now a woman grown, a silent grief, raw, raging wild, the only love she'd known.
The flowers filled the air with scent, the candles flickered flame, and suddenly the room was rent, a voice called out a name.
Yet no one heard, and no one spoke, and no one raised a head, as scream in mind tried to evoke an answer from the dead.
Then all the people made their way past coffin now her bed, and no one knew enough to pray, for silent living dead.
It was this day they buried her, and everybody came; the priest said angels carried her, and heaven scribed her name.
And quietly they said goodbye, but no one even knew, the woman-child who that day died was buried with her, too.©
May 19, 1999 Ruth A. Curl I miss her so much.
Design by Whispered Dreams
