The Plot

A toast to morose
circumstance and
bitter is its taste in
ceremonial splendor

as Death is mourned
in garb of black
as the crowd hovers

heads bobbing,
sobbing for piety.
Procession moves
on, funeral march

of flats sucking
sound from a
still swirling
world outside

the dense macabre.
Faces flash, white,
vacant behind veils.

Mouths agape,
swallowing waning
light of dusk.

Inside their bellies
does it grow. Hands
clasped, lips pursed,

empty socket eyes
look downward
toward a plot of
Earth. Gracious, warm

embrace wet
from which all
have spawned,

where all shall
return in decades,
and back again.