mourning

You lay in your coffin boldly with your face exposed
The wound in front is small but too much is missing

The pope lay in his coffin upon a golden pillow
Millions came to see his dead body, walk by, and to pray

Terri’s body was cut open and her brain removed
They are still arguing over what to do with her remains

Hidden faces return home in coffins draped with flags
Without mourning we have lost count of our war dead

Strangers far, far away, die at our hands, by our words and actions
Our national shame is told quietly at the bottom of the front page