A PRIEST'S FUNERAL: Some Final Thoughts

	Now he who laid the lost to rest
	At last lies hushed among the rest;
	The lone man who led many through
	Tangled trials and griefs,
	Now faces up, his lips below
	The dark, deep dirt where worms grow.

	Buried in the same soil as previous parish priests
	near pebbles carried by ancient glacial streams
	his corpse rots slowly within oak-lined panes,
	resting in Hope & Dexter casket with brass hinges
	corroding under silt, stones and clay.

	When the required rite is read,
	The living leave the newly dead;
	Merchants mutter, children stare,
	Teens are gone, and housewives dare
	To scroll their feeds and their screens
	Planning tonight’s pasta and the plans they’ve made.


Lis set her glass down with a soft, deliberate click, her gaze tracing the ambient shadows 
of the room. "Most priests say that God is the sacred core of all things."

"Naturally," Ron replied, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, a wry smile 
hovering on his lips. "That’s their job. And, of course, each religion claims a slightly different center."

Lex chuckled into the rim of his cup, his eyes glittering with quiet amusement. “Sounds less 
like less solemn theology. It reminds competitive real estate marketing.”

“Precisely,” Lis chimed in, a faint edge of cynicism slipping into her voice. "It is an 
endless, turf-bound holy war. Each religion claims it has the best corner in the market of faith."

Ron turned, propping an elbow on the table as he shifted the focus of the circle. “So 
this Newfields guy—where does he land in all this landscape? Can you guess how he was mapped?"

Linda gave a subtle, enigmatic shrug, her hands resting calmly on the table. "Ah, who 
can say? Let the poetry and art speak for itself. Too much exegesis kills the spirit of life.


> NOTE: This piece was partially generated with AI tools; human editing was then applied. 

=====================================================================================
from _Last Poems: Lost Poems_ by T Newfields
LONG SUMMARY:  Surrounding a rhythmic meditation on the cold, mundane reality of a priest's burial, 
a group of companions offers sharp, cynical reflections on religious turf wars and artistic intent.
SHORT SUMMARY: A description of the funeral rites of an undistinguished priest.
KEYWORDS: scripted performances, funeral services, fleeting absurdities
elegies, funeral rites, philosophical dialogues, cynicism, religious critiques, 
real estate metaphors, decay and dust, modern indifference, textual interpretations

Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955 - )
Begun: 1971 in Newtown, PA ✠ Finished: 2026 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} 

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