Dark Muse
03-27-2010, 11:22 PM
The Convenience of Death
I watch muted from the shadows,
one by one they parade
up to the podium, draped
in their mournful black
and one by one they speak
their dignified lies.
Blank faces strained
around the eyes, lips pursed tight
from the effort of their act?
Or do they cry real tears,
those that don't know the
things I do, those afraid
of the truth?
How convenient is death for some,
how it absolves the sins of life,
to become a mortal saint overnight
by so simple an act as passing
through life.
"Don't speak ill of the dead,"
they chide, and it takes all I have
not to laugh with bitter brittleness.
How I long to stand up
and march down the somber aisle,
among the sea of drab suits,
each looking a copy of the next,
to stand before all their watching eyes,
and scream out to the world,
to speak the truth, a laundry list
of crimes, to point my finger
without remorse.
But naked of grief
half-hysterical in a quest
for justice absolved of pretenses
would they applaud?
Nod in quiet consent, acknowledging
what they feared to say, be grateful
to have their eyes opened?
No, I would then be the bad guy,
as they would frown and shake their
heads in half-disgust, half-pity
for this demented creature
who simply does not understand
how things are meant to work.
Instead in the silence of my mind,
I say, "I am glad he is dead,
the world is a better place."
I watch muted from the shadows,
one by one they parade
up to the podium, draped
in their mournful black
and one by one they speak
their dignified lies.
Blank faces strained
around the eyes, lips pursed tight
from the effort of their act?
Or do they cry real tears,
those that don't know the
things I do, those afraid
of the truth?
How convenient is death for some,
how it absolves the sins of life,
to become a mortal saint overnight
by so simple an act as passing
through life.
"Don't speak ill of the dead,"
they chide, and it takes all I have
not to laugh with bitter brittleness.
How I long to stand up
and march down the somber aisle,
among the sea of drab suits,
each looking a copy of the next,
to stand before all their watching eyes,
and scream out to the world,
to speak the truth, a laundry list
of crimes, to point my finger
without remorse.
But naked of grief
half-hysterical in a quest
for justice absolved of pretenses
would they applaud?
Nod in quiet consent, acknowledging
what they feared to say, be grateful
to have their eyes opened?
No, I would then be the bad guy,
as they would frown and shake their
heads in half-disgust, half-pity
for this demented creature
who simply does not understand
how things are meant to work.
Instead in the silence of my mind,
I say, "I am glad he is dead,
the world is a better place."