Selfie Funeral
She wore black lace for the headline shot, pouted lips and sorrow bought,
A lens turned on the family’s grief—each pixel proof,
each pose a thief.Never dialed his number, never checked his name,
But now her caption burns with digital flame,
A borrowed pain, arranged and neat,
staged at the threshold of the dead man’s feet.The pallbearers lift,
she checks her phone,
Filters shadow out the undertone.Not a single memory, not a story shared,
But all the world must know she cared.
He frames the altar, pans the room,
Tears rehearsed in the digital gloom.His face reflected in the urn’s cold shine,
A tragedy that syncs with the posting time.No ache allowed
that can’t be streamed—His eulogy is live, his mourning themed.The incense fades,
the priest’s words stall,
But the selfie flash becomes the pall.
Mourning monetized, each click a prayer,
The hashtags stacked, the mourners stare.Their grief compressed in 1080p,
A circus of loss, an apology for free.None held a hand in the hospice dusk,
No whispers, no comfort, no shared musk—But the stories roll,
the tribute spills,
Edited for metrics, juiced for thrills.
Under flickering bulbs, in viral gloom,
Grief is staged in the echoing room.No one lingers when the service ends,
The wake dissolves into trending friends.The stone is cold, the flowers drop,
But the feed ensures the pain won’t stop.A corpse, a like,
a fresh lament—Love reduced to engagement spent.
Every mourner is a hungry screen,
Reflection swallowed in the gleam.The silence deepens, the soul is missed,
But vanity makes a coffin list.And as the living go back to scroll,
The dead remain, untagged, unwhole.A final shot,
a hollow smile—The afterlife is just another file.
A grave left lonely under blue-lit skies,
Yet her profile picture never lies.Not a tear that’s truly shed,
Only pixels for the newly dead.This is how the end is now preserved—An
archive of the self, deserved.The last goodbye is not a word,
But every sorrow photobombed, blurred.
Let the mourners bow, let the screen go black—For the only thing remembered is the filtered
lack.No candle, no prayer, no quiet ache—Just
the ghost of grief,And the click it’ll make.