Gossip

Will they wail and wring their hands,
whilst reminiscing tumbled sands.
Will my character – once frayed -
be recycled and displayed,
miraculously untarnished?

Villain, while my breath remained,
whose tolerated presence, pained.
Now suddenly of saintly stock,
no more to slander or to mock,
for death breeds superstition.

Oh, how I gleefully would long,
to sit among that sombre throng
and be empowered to plant and feed
the 'Guilty flower's' tiny seed
and laugh to watch it blooming.

For gossip, goes to bed with lies,
and ruts, to breed incestuous sighs,
which growing swiftly into lore,
smother all the heretofore,
til memories lie tainted.

But death arrives, with righteous sword
and though mute, has final word.
Lying eunuchs, shivering hide
within cocoons, well known as snide
awaiting fresh new targets.