Here to confess that something has gone wrong.
|Iosias Sepultus in Mausoleum Patrum|
It begins with a death. Preferably in the 15th century but any year will do. Even this year of our Lord. Cue a train of mourners – two abreast – they have apparelled themselves in momentary grief and clutch, perhaps, a symbolic rose apiece. For props, two stone angels leering from twin alcoves – inexplicably one wears a sly grin. Naturally, the overcast sky provides pathetic fallacy. An oaken door, bulleted with iron rivets, on a creaky hinge. Double doors would be better. They swing inward and this is where you come in. No expense was spared for your conveyance – four onyx horses wearing plumes or a long automobile in muted black. Bystanders cross themselves. Six men of equal height bear the palled form of what once was you. This is your room now, behind the barricade. The living step back, take a bow. A scattering of petals they have cast aside on the marble stairs is the only reminder of blood in the entire scene.
Are you nearby, waiting for me in the wings?
The Weekend Mini-Challenge in the Imaginary Garden is hosted by Kim, who has provided us with Philip Larkin's poem, The Building, as inspiration.
Shared at Poetry Pantry # 363.