She stands shrouded in black.

A veil covers her face so nobody else can see her expression.

It is not a loss of family or friends she attends for though you could say it is.

The funeral is none other than her own.

She both lies six feet under and stands at the banquet table with the others.

A strange rebirth that no one else has taken notice of.

***

Not a single soul apart from her knows that it is a funeral.

They converse, gossip and partake in all that is good.

She does not bother correcting them.

Funerals are for the living after all.

She enjoys the food as much as they do.

And she is yet alive.

***

What sleeps un dreaming with the earth is her but separate.

An incarnation that failed to survive.

Born too weak or hopeful.

Unable to adapt to the atmosphere of truth that crushes so quickly.

Returned back to the dream that she was born from in a coffin of pristine white.

Though, every coffin seems dirtier than the last.

***

The earthworms know her.

A homecoming that she never misses.

Even if it means kneeling at the graveside of the las fresh grave.

Every death holds meaning special to her: a new undeniable loss.

Others might not understand why, but the flowers she leaves tells she does.

A graveyard that now seems endless.

***

She cannot locate every gravestone anymore.

Some have crumbled in time and others overshadowed by a bigger one.

Entwined in so many vines that she could never cut through completely.

Off the beaten path she walks so frequently.

It is hard being the only one in the know.

Maybe it is best she forgot too.

***

The mourning gown will be worn again.

She knows that it is not over yet.

Not as long as they do not know it is a funeral.

But after visiting hours are over, she hangs it back up in the end of her closet out of sight.

Returning to the funeral in brighter colors.

Funerals are for the living after all.