Black

Black

Step by step,
through the mush and the muck.
I grip my handle firmly,
but this just seems fucked.

A jet black coffin?
For you of all people?
Doesn't strike me as apt.
Hardly seems feasible.

It's just that you,
through all of your days,
never once emanated
morose or malaise.

And black just seems,
perhaps only to me,
suited for the bitter.
For the melancholy.

Your name was Rosella,
for Christ's sake.
They couldn't pick something jovial?
Or bare minimum, opaque?

Perhaps I'm overreacting,
but it doesn't seem fair
for your private place of peace to be colorless,
for it to be bare.

Had I been in charge,
had you just left it to me,
I promise I'd have done better.
Your burial, a sight to see.

Pearl white,
flowers adorned,
a pure-tempered temple
over which we could mourn.

As for the pallbearers,
myself included,
their march would be radiant.
Not darkly suited.

Red tie, white buttons,
flashy frays and loud lapels.
A suit for a funeral?
One could never tell.

Again I will say it,
if just to be fair,
maybe it is just I who hates black.
Perhaps only me who cares.

But I know that when I die,
I will not be buried in black.
Not that morbid, awful shade.
Anything but that.