A Personal Pyre

I do death well. In public
I smile and wrap my mouth
around the words of psalms
until calm cools the pool
of hot tears lying in wait
for some forgotten freedom.

I suck up the grief,
snort it unsteralised
and live on the defiled scent
that designs the path
of my emotions,
hungering only for sleep.

Songs sustain me,
sung on stereo
in surround sound.

I pray for rain,
for the clouds that cling to the sky
waiting for me to choke
on pleasantries,
those inane gossipy gems
that swirl around
the black-winged crowd.

I forget to ask for peace.