Don't Speak Ill of the Dead (Please?)

I saw them, at the antichrist's burial
with teeth-bearing smiles, not a single demeanor is low.

when asked the cause for a special occasion, they say,
"it is the fault of the antichrist, by their own hand, they died!

after a life of lies, ugliness, and crimes
against our just Lord," they cheer

"Indeed, they take their own life, as written for all sinners."
holding the undertaker's grimy, firm hand,

I see the body, scarred and beaten;
the head blown open to reveal manuscript upon manuscripts.

death sits in the loveseat once more, a man this time
she holds me as the mother of the passed lands in a vacation home

the traits described as that of the antichrist-
they are molded into my character from the womb

I cannot be soft-hearted with round edges.
now that god's abandoned me,

I'll lay among the gospel-singing dogs.
they are celebrating my death.

THE ANTICHRIST IS DEAD (I WAS THE ANTICHRIST)
(Who was the they? Who was the you?

Did you think carefully? Do correct me,
if I'm overstepping, but did you peer at the headstone?

What stopped you from bearing flowers?
My eyesight hasn't left me so soon, and your hands are not tied!

The progenitor [of your kin] remained open until the very last supper,
Despite despite despite despite despite despite.

Brother, friend, or countryman,
kissed on cheek; don't tell me you're anxious to die.

Maybe I'll petition for a god that no longer
puts out cigarettes on the Earth's surface...

You could run until your feet turned to bloody pulp,
but did the other get anywhere? Everything is final one day.

Shit, you're bleeding a lot! Will you fall into prayer?
I wouldn’t either.)

based off a poem i wrote in the ~5th grade that was called THE ANTICHRIST IS DEAD (I WAS THE ANTICHRIST). for the rest of the year every wednesday during math i had to talk to the counselor.