Funerals Poem by Max Buchanan

The slow gallop onwards
toward all truth and gold
Shaking free of lead weights
and deadweight keeping the strain
Gaoling the tread of harmony
hoarding its tattered reins
The sweetness of my vices
and the steps that they drain
The sinking heels above my head
their pounding through the lush
Blessed wings strain not your reach
beneath the light they crushed
Their guilty strides
their boldness
and their funerals
Their old ways
their cruelness
and their long fall