A Funeral.

May death never stop this. 

May the reaper not take this away from me. Not yet.

The eulogy would be wordless, silent, a thousand mouths yawning open as smoke pours from their throats.

The ceremony held worldwide, nine billion lives pausing at a millisecond’s notice to wince as a hammer cracks their beating hearts.

Porcelain shards will fall as they open their mouths to talk, scream, yawn. Porcelain shards that fall upwards into the clouds, a fragile mosaic of mourning.

There will be no headstone to weather away as time passes beyond that moment.

There is no need for a burial, for we all carry that handful of dirt, that one rose in our wrinkled hands because the funeral is ours. All of ours.

It’s us.


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