Roses and carnations scent the air as Candlelight caresses black and white Photographs like a long-lost loved one.
Handkerchiefs dab at eyes, Sniffles muffled, all eyes look toward the satin-lined box and the old man peacefully resting there.
In the back row, the woman sits, her Little black dress made respectable By the shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
She buries her face in the dark fabric, Shoulders quivering, chest heaving, her Sobs barely contained.
An elderly lady to her left Pats her knee kindly, but like a sadistic broken Record in her Mind, all she can hear is a Faux British accent.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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