To preface this poem, I wrote it after attending my Aunt's funeral. But as much as it is a personal poem, I feel like it speaks to a larger audience. Anyway, I never like to analyze my poetry because there's no right way to interpret it.P.S. - This is an amazingly beautiful and sentimental urn. The soft lines of the form are kind to the eye and the symbolism of dancing is incredibly powerful.
At My Funeral
when I die I am forgotten
not because I cease to be
but because they don’t remember
the true me
the eulogy is delivered
by my dearest friend
but the person he describes
is not I – the man who’s died.
“He will be missed dearly”
more likely only yearly
“He had many passions”several arrests for possession
“and a kind heart”the kind with several vices
this caricature is a saint
without a singular taint
-ed deed
surely this couldn’t be me
I sit, high, in the rafters
watching the circus perform
and one must have wonders:
did any of them know?
sitting far removed from the rest
dressed in a glazed expression and cheap vest
is the person who knew me best
he knew quite well
when the euloger had said
“He loved children”
he lied
“He donated to charity, often”he lied
“He loved everyone in this room”he lied through his teeth
during a brief repose
he slipped from the crowd
no one heard him rise
the sobbing was too loud
he entered the restroom
locked the door
and turned out his pockets
quivering hands grabbed for more
but they were emptied of their contents
half in shaking hand
half on the sink stand
were bags of white powder
and a single, stainless, steel razor
–Pour.—Cut.—Snort.—
Ah, yes,
he knew me best
when I die I am forgotten
not because I cease to be
but because they don’t remember
the real me
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