The Last Friend's Funeral

The rain is polite upon the stone

It taps a rhythm on the wood

We stand in circles made of black

The few who understood

The preacher speaks of rest and peace

Of journeys to a better place

I look around the open hole

And do not recognize a face

I am the last of the platoon

The final number on the list

The only one left standing here

Inside the morning mist

I throw the dirt upon the lid

A hollow sound, a final knock

That echoes in the empty church

And stops the ticking of the clock

Goodbye to jokes I cannot tell

To memories that die with you

To secrets kept inside the dark

That now are lost to view

I turn my collar to the wind

And walk away across the grass

The last witness to the life we led

Reflected in the looking glass

There is no one left to call me friend

This is the true and quiet end.