Grief stricken mourners line the road to watch the grey procession. With grave faces carved of stone, the carriers bear their heavy burdens lying shrouded in shadowy mist. Handkerchiefs are raised. Children are drawn nearer. Sobs just barely muffled whisper through the crowd. Murmurs, tears, and memories float above like empty clouds. With unquickened step, the procession draws closer, passes right before their eyes. Black crepe flutters. War weary hearts collapse in wrenching pain. Suddenly the heavy silence is broken as the piercing moans of bagpipes rise above the tears. Eerie sounds and silent grief.
The dead are coming home.
--- You should have seen my Mom’s face when she came home from the Christmas party. The kitchen counter was completely cleared off, every...
wow. This is really good dear! I really like how you have spun the words!! Very sad and beautiful.
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