DIARY OF THE DEAD

A sea of heads at my funeral— tense, nostalgic, gorgeous— paid last respects to the departed whom they had treated in multifaceted ways.

Their lips declared: a good man has passed; their hearts rejoiced: a thorn is removed; to the dead, a whisper: frenemies surround; to God: the world of men is steeped in deceit.

A wrenching requiem ushered in the requiescat sung in my honor— a mask to hide their true selves from all, proving God’s regret for man: born evilly.

On their counsel I embarked on this endless journey; they claimed the heavens blaze for princes’ deaths yet never taught me that beggars die unseen, no comets mark their passing.

Who’ll bear my regrets to my mother? Who’ll tell the world I strayed amiss on the counsel of these sages of calumny? Who’ll teach my sons the signs of the times?

If this diary falls across your path, pick it up; let it pique your hindsight, forge insight into foresight, and walk the old paths to fortify your unborn dreams lest you stray amiss like this remains here!