Funeral: The Last Rites

It is,
A walk through the glacial strength of the deepest greys,
And the scattered breath of pure sunlight.
The endless touch of rain,
Falling ceaseless and on fire.
The circled rise and fall,
The plaintive,
Buzzards,
Call.
It is what is left upon breeze
And what remains,
From the falling of life's leaves.
It is,
What is,
And something common amongst the breath,
Of those,
Remaining.
A passing right to life and it's living.
Those days,
Are but days amongst the many
If we're lucky.
Singular and far reaching,
Different in the calm of each eye,
A restless storm in the passing of a mind.
And standing from afar,
From that day,
And those days,
Both and all,
Fresh or however,
Old,
Each lays a layer of colour upon the sky,
And that,
Above the massing of the standing mist,
From the falling of life's leaves,
That,
Is what I hold.