It hardly did justice for the man;
the absurdity of his folded hands,
and the stillness of the room.
The deep remorse of silence,
marred by coughs and tears,
the occasional quip of a child-like voice.
Attention soon turned to the sound of a soft voice,
the pastor stood rigid, a meek pallid man.
His presence stifled the torrent of tears,
soon to be wiped by moistened hands.
"Please, a moment of silence,
for the dead," he directed the room.
The people in the room
obeyed the doting voice;
bowing their heads they commenced into silence.
Each remembering the man
with absurd folded hands,
the rain outside poured down like tears.
"Dry your sadness and your tears,"
he said unto the room.
A weathered Bible was cradled in his hands.
"This is a celebration of life," announced the voice,
"for a father, husband, and God-fearing man,
whose soul has found eternal peace and silence."
"Eternal peace and silence,
safe from pain and fear and tears.
The body of this man
resides in this room,
but his soul was called by the Lord’s voice,
and carried away in God’s loving hands."
Upon reflection, I sat with folded hands,
a prisoner to the fleeting silence.
Suddenly a voice
full of pained tears
cuts through the room
screaming at the undisturbed man.
A gray-haired woman, with shaking hands,
dashes across the room, breaking the silence.
Her face is full of tears: "You left me," screamed her voice.
WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005
Friday, January 13, 2006
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