David Sula - Poetry

Here Lies Symbolism

by David M. Sula

Rotting in a malodorous grave.

Flesh melts, and bones sublimate

to nauseating vapors. The crate

fills with fetid stenches and settles

deeper in the dirt. Wilted flowers

every shade of beige coil

upon a meager bed of stone

and weep their leaves and petals.

Clichés wearing crass veneers

of the deceased walk the streets:

storms, daybreaks, twilights, trees,

doors, fires, winds, and rivers.

Masquerading as cleverness,

mocking the dead who claws against

its casket’s lid, grinding fingernails

to dust, exchanging them for splinters.

It roils in the suffocating box,

as progeny debases innovation, locks

progress with tired ricochets. The clichés

reign and devastate the victim’s peace,

bleed ink, and stamp their branded wits

anywhere the rubber rectangle fits.

Stamp stamp stamp, like the hammering

of skinless fists begging for release.

Symbolism holds its final breath,

barring the stink of its own death,

grabs a thread and rings its bell,

but the gravediggers have no ears.

The etchings on the slab scrutinize

a repetitious world. With no eyes

to cry except the flowers left behind

so long ago, with petals as their tears.