The Funeral March

The Funeral March played on...
I walked silently with the crowd.
It was a bright sunny day.
The winter wind battled with the pristine shroud.

The aisle was long.
The way to the altar was longer still.
Twice I was to be given away.
Twice had I been turned away further still.

They marched through the meadows...
They marched through the hills...
They marched through the shadows...
They marched through barren lands and streams.

The funeral march played on...
I walked silently with the crowd.

There were flowers and they burned incense...
The stink of death and sorrow filled the air.
I was stale and I had wilted...
The wind blew through my unkempt hair.

Was it me they were mourning or was I mourning my dreams?
The crowd was filled with faces that I had never seen.
Their touch was cold... or maybe it just wasn’t as warm as I had been.
Was this the loss of me or was this my loss... I was lost, I could not feel.

Was it me they were mourning or was I mourning my dreams?

The funeral march played on...
I walked silently with the crowd.

— written on a winter afternoon with an overcast sky