island roads and funeral homes (warning, rhyming poem)

I drive on island roads
that still are green
from grass trampled by tires
from the mining trucks,
I drive to dream
perhaps to sing
perhaps to seem

like i am getting somewhere.

And the trumpets scream
like melodious machines
built to mine that sound
from our heroic dreams
from music's bueracracy
from something that seems

beautifully arranged.

I'm at the funearal in the grange
the wilted mourners sob
the eulogy is strange and
the celebration is underground.

The island's mined
I do not mind
I do not die.

He fell into the earth
like he fell in life
with gradual conveyance
and flowers tossed upon him
that splashed petals
across his coffin
like photographs
like beautiful lies.

I drive upon these island roads
and feel a ghost
as the mining trucks moan
I feel a ghost and do not mind
since it is quiet and divine
like photographs
like beautiful lies.

Oh one time when we were young
like now only without the photographs
without the lies, without being mined
without our trumpets and bathed
in lucent green,
you played the concertina
and the trees seemed to come
up from underground
with the ghostly light
we dreamt was youth
with the specter's light
we felt was truth.

And I drive upon these island roads
away from the funeral homes
away from rhymes
away from light away from sight,
because our death is just
a fork in the road
and our home is a rhyme
with the music of a place
that we haven't left
because we haven't been
so I journey upon these island roads
where the grass is being buried in
I think about the underground
and the ghosts where we begin

with life, begin with life,
begin with life.