Funeral

The casket is black, the world drained of all color.

A man stands out in the crowd wearing all white.

The only color that has not been sucked away is one lustrous, blood red rose in his hand.

It can’t be, he is supposed to be dead!

In a casket about to be entombed six feet under the cold, hard earth.

How could this be possible?

He looks at me, his eyes soulless and iridescent, filled with a sadness that only could be explained with suffering.  

But he still manages to smile an icy, ghoulish smile and put a single bony forefinger to his pale lips; sending a creep of shivers up my spine, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

He placed the rose on the casket, and disappeared as if he were smoke, blending in with the night air.

Never to be seen or heard from again.