Today, I stand here.
With my eyes fisted on him.
A man in an exquisitely tailored suit.
The first to see his own supreme spectar colour.
Could he have lived a full life?
These rhetorics intrigues my brow to my bald forehead.
To be rolled into a deadman’s chest, does he know where he lies?
Can he tell from those who try to hold themselves and not cry?
Can he tell those who hypocritically cry for the confectioneries and the caterer’s pie?
Can he tell from those who mock him where he lies?
Can he tell those who wish he never dies?
Can he tell the true mourners from the tear mongers?
Can he tell from those who will use his death as a success patch?
Can he tell those who are using his fall as bait for a new catch?
Can he tell his family from his friends and either of the two from his foes?
Can he boast of what he owns at where he goes?
Can he plead to his benevolent creditors to scratch off what he owes?
Could he teach his sons from all that he knows?
Could he tell everyone who once saw him in clothes to keep their eyes closed when he was being dressed for a casket pose?
Can he tell the irony in all of these with his eyes closed where he lies?
Can he tell through his blindman’s eyes?
My rhetorics raises the twin of the brow as I secretly ask the cans and hows.
Ultimately, a deadman can’t rise.
So the answers are with him where he lies.
I am skeptic, but penultimately, I offer my last bow.
See you in the next life.