Who mourns my loss? As they lower me into the ground, who stands to see they don’t drop me. Who over sees that they cover my casket right, and not leave it open for wild animals to ravage. Did anyone even check to see if I was really gone? The mortician’s cold deft hands, working to prepare the body for internment. Cutting here and there, dragging parts out and filling areas with other things, placing the body in its suit for all eternity. No one came to view the body as it lay in state. No one said he was such a good friend, or great person to have around when in need. Who sat vigil over the body as it lay in the funeral home waiting for internment? The dirt is cold as it covers the casket. The workers leave, and all is silent now, with just a little wind blowing. Weeks pass, and no one comes to place flowers on the grave, just weeds blooming. Who will clear the weeds and wipe the dust from the headstone? Night falls, and still no one comes. Did anyone actually check to see if I was dead? Perhaps they made a mistake, and I am trapped inside the casket. Night grows darker, and slowly a mist forms. A form takes shape in the dark and light mist of the night. A hand lovingly wipes the dust from the cold stone. Slowly sobs begin, and a form falls to its knees. For you see, I come to mourn my loss, for no one else will. I crossed the void to be with the only one who cared.
