They writhe in earth-stained clothes,

Practiced grief etched on weathered faces.

Voices crack like thunder,

"Gone too soon!" they wail,

Beating their breasts in rhythmic despair.

A theater of sorrow unfolds:

Strangers clutch photos of your smile,

Weaving tales of moments never shared.

Their tears water the grass

Where you'll forever rest.

But here's the bitter pill:

Their sobs echo hollow,

Like rain on empty tin.

No one truly mourns you—

They mourn their own mortality.

Each fresh grave is a mirror,

Reflecting their inevitable end.

Death's touch shatters their glass castle

Of assumed immortality,

Leaving shards of brutal truth.

They don't miss you,

They miss the comfort of ignorance.

Each funeral a reminder:

Time devours all dreams,

Leaving nothing but dust and memories.

So rest easy in your wooden cradle,

Free from this masquerade.

Death's cold embrace more honest

Than warm hands that never reached for yours

When breath still filled your lungs.