By Mide Benedict In the company of mourners Not all who mourn mourn. Amidst the thousand tears that fall Not all tears speak the truthful thought. They all gather to sympathize Rolling words on your carpet of pain Petting you with their lips of saw, They pretend to heal your pain While in turn cause disdain. They are the mourners of laughter They are the mourners of vainess. In the mist of mourning sighs, The red seas pour out to weep and cry But not all the waters are red Not all the weepers really weep. They tear their cloths and fall to ground They ask the grave not to sleep Or doze, But to look back at the folks he leaves But with their hands they blind the grave, With their thoughts they Murder the dead. They only say that to please the eyes, But to truly weep, their hearts Are shut. The preacher speaks the words of saints They respond with the response of peace. Amen! They say, peace To you, they all portray But their hearts lip-twist To ...
Where words are sacrificed at the Altar of Creativity