There’s a funeral
where nobody cries;
where the corpse lie in distort
and people dress nice.
Death was two fortnights ago
yet, still unburied ’til now.
“They must be waiting for someone,”
One thought. “Or something, somehow.”
Strange, it really is,
Flowers withered, candles used out;
Lamentations sung but don’t pierce,
And the face seems stifling a shout.
Then someone came one day
and the stranger actually cried,
with real tears, mind you;
then he learned it was suicide —
A note beside the body
handwritten, addressed in particular
saying, “I can’t love you enough here
So I’m loving you somewhere far.