There are no parades to be rained upon, no dragging banners through the mud
no flag will ever mean anything to anyone so befallen
there is no escape for the whispering spirit
as it is released into white halls and corridors, cotton-draped
to find its own way, oblivious
eerily silent but faintly detectable
through the unfocused, sleep-crusted eyes of the mortally ill

the light inside the pupil doesn't visibly extinguish -
there was no light before and is none now
the pupil remains black, no lie
there is no loss of weight to compliment the still warm husk
no black-gloved women will gather by the roadside
freshly turned earth smells no different whether for seed or for grave
it is our imagination that smells, our situation
our dreams that smell as they fall apart
when they should fall together

there are no enchanting journies that await us
the ocean will not beat its wave-arms in sorrow upon the rocky shore
it has forever beaten its waves and will beat them regardless
the weeping willow weeps not for us, it has always wept
and no reason is clear to us
nor will it ever be
what whispers to us that there is meaning must be silenced
for there is none
no angels will fan our salty cheeks with glowing wings
God will not speak to us in a voice overwhelming;
there are no heavenly drums to be danced upon
nor any bloody trombones to announce as we come or go

there is no peace, no nothing to await our passing
no book will ever hold our names through times unfathomable
there comes a moment when even a king ceases to feel like a king
or, for that sake, like anything
whatever we are we are the same

there are no parades, no banners, no fancy show to be put on
our sendoff will be modest and unnoticeable
we all lay down like sheep in the end