Challenging Poetry

spoiled

sitting in the chapel
before an ice-white casket
dressed in five shades of black
each darker than the next
we folded our hands
just like her own sharp fingers
lay folded now
forever motionless
poised and ready.

the room was close and whispering
each pew full
until the room swarmed
like an anthill
seeking a meal.
we wanted to be sure
to be seen mourning her.

we closed our eyes
to avoid her stare.
her eyes were sewn shut
but she circled
in her vulture purple robe
from every corner of the room
the picture of her predatory face
mirrored in the program
held in every hand.

the bell tolled off-key
which was the signal for the
preacher to stand,

but our minds were caught up in memories
her eyes,
her fingers,
the words she used with precision
each syllable sharp enough to
scar,

and we knew
she had carved us into
the nothings we were now.
the living, bleeding, half-eaten carcasses,
the spoils of the dead.