In a town where whispers crept like mist,
A funeral came—but something was missed.
The coffin was lowered, the prayers were read,
Yet none could recall who lay there dead.
The mourners stood with vacant stares,
Draped in black, unblinking glares.
They swayed like marionettes on strings,
Bound to fate by unseen things.
The priest intoned with hollow breath,
A sermon long as living death.
Yet as he spoke, time bent and curled,
And trapped them in an endless world.
The bells tolled thrice—a mournful sound,
The grave was dug, the dirt was found.
Yet when the casket touched the ground,
The sky turned red, the earth unwound.
The dead man’s name could not be traced,
His features blurred, his past erased.
Yet still they stood, as night grew deep,
Prisoners of this rite they’d keep.
Again they wept, again they prayed,
Again the funeral was replayed.
Through years unknown, through days unspun,
The service never came undone.
The priest grew frail, the mourners thin,
Yet none could leave, nor death begin.
For all who watched, who dared attend,
Were part of what would never end.
So if you hear the church bells chime,
At dusk or near the midnight time,
Do not look back—don’t join the throng,
Or you’ll be trapped, and mourn too long.