The FuneralĀ 

Bells of pure and ornate crafted gold,
cast their hypnotic vibrating spells
on the hollow silence of a red brick hall.
Soft remnants of fragrant grey clouds
drift up with slow ease, from incense,
to the open air of dark wooden beams.
Light breaks into fragmented colours,
from a single enchanting mosaic window,
onto a spartan coffin resting on the floor.

One lonely soul kneels on cobblestone,
folded hands, hooded head bowed low,
mournful guilty face obscured by shadow.
Softly, slowly, chanting starts and grows,
from full cracking pleading bleeding lips,
rolling rhythmically into a red brick hall.
Calling on radiant transfiguration of light
to illuminate a new path past his coffin
away from these bells, the smoke the night.