Art of Growing Old

In a combination of tears and synthetic surprise, we bowed our heads in sorrow as though our hearts weren’t as black as the ties we all chose to wear. Perhaps it was the presumed self-applauding sob or a transparent tear that won the crowd. It was as if one tear would make up for your apparent loss of regret; a glorious performance worthy of Broadway, no less.

We hung pictures and lit candles, following the mindless routines of millions who’ve entrusted their hopes and dreams into melting wax. Perhaps we’ll soon attend a similar gathering for the loss of inviolability as devotion shifts to conformity but we were not here to discuss this.

We were not there to argue,
We were not allowed to question,
We simply could not fight back the tears.

In a visual sensation of your last standing breath, we awaited our turn to graciously award you our sympathy. We wrapped it tight in hand-made baskets, filled with scented hopes, and handed them over in our Sunday’s best as we blessed you with our deflated remarks.

I sincerely wish we knew what the hell we’ve become.