The death parade

In those hours of
muffled screams and prayers
colourless but painted nails
socially acceptable clothes
eyes covert with welled up tears that never left its home

No one noticed my
soundless protests
torn shroud
brittle and blood-betrayed nails
hair as tranquil as the smoke that rose from the burning incense sticks next to it
eyes which were wide open with the awe of watching my last journey

The needles of the clock seemed warped
For which
I blamed those
civilised cannibals
while they were too busy ignoring the presence of my death

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