Last Funeral March in a-ny minor

As I lived my daily life,
Until deaths my eternal wife,

I saw the day did die at night,
No longing as it faded slight,

Until I slept all night, until,
The day denied her every will,

Then again I raced in time,
Until I find that only crime:

The life of life is living death,
Until its marriage with our breath

Unless we see all changes done,
Before our requiem begun.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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5 Responses to Last Funeral March in a-ny minor

  1. kshawnedgar says:

    I really liked the story and imagery, but noticed you changed tense occasionally. was this intentional? Felt distracting.

    • Thank you!

      Its funny, I was actually just evaluating that myself haha.

      I am likewise deeply considering slight edit s, maybe you could help,

      When I initially wrote it that way
      I wanted to show a simultaneously past and present reflection that resolved In the revelation of the wisdom gleaned by those past and present instants culminating in the final lines. I wanted this to be The “Last” funeral march, once experienced, all is a reflection against that, and the struggle ceases to be a present matter, though at the same time, it is still a daily lesson learned. We can know, but each day forces us to revisit the same doubts.

      I had actually just finished reading your last comment on my perception and was inspired,

      I wanted to highlight that once that realization of the final lines occurs, all future, past, and current, attempts become forever past and are overshadowed in the focus of the lesson learned in the final lines.

      Essentially to show that the struggle, once overcome by the reader, is something that is forever past in the light of new perception.

      My issue is yours as well, I’m currently deciding if the distractions are hindering or as Im hoping, entice a reapraisal of the poem as a whole by the reader, with that new awareness gleaned. The friction of the tense was meant to convey the friction of the daily cycle of doubt felt by beings at constant odds with death.

      Please let me know if that makes absolutely any sense

  2. Kavita says:

    I like the reflective piece… very profound..
    “The life of life is living death,
    Until its marriage with our breath” – -these lines hold so much truth in them.. I really liked how you composed them… the thought is simply excellent!!
    The meaning of life is incomplete until it meets breath…WOW!! What a thought!!

    • Thank you!

      I am glad you like the message. I always love attempting to determine what the true parameters of experience, and meaning, and what it is that truly propels them onward and outward as beings may be.

      Thus far, all I can determine is I’ve still got allot of determining left to do….

      Thanks for visiting,

      Comeback and read any time!

  3. BFG says:

    I also enjoyed that line, quite perceptive. Well done!

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