Dying dreams

"At night, I woke up shivering,
quivering, quirky dreams 
dreaming.
Salty sweat covered my body,
as i lay, lay dreaming of you,
and your death. 

The funeral procession,
an orthodox obsession,
was marked by your dead body
lying on a scarlet stretcher.
fetcher of which were four strong men. 

Your mother, wearing a dead pan expression,
the old broken lady as she is, was heard muttering,
'First my husband, now not my daughter! ' while those who came,
hogged with no bother. 

I remember clearly,
as if I wasn't dreaming, but only,
witnessing your scarlet death bed,
with you, like a pale wilted lotus,
warm and soft, wrapped in your,
white shroud. 

In the midst of all this I found, myself,
bitterly shedding tears and
filled with an acute sense of loss. 
And all hope had gone,
as I trudged through the funeral hall. 

Once outside, I lit a fag,
which from my lips sagged,
as I overheard an old couple say,
that you have gone to a better place.
Heaven, they said, is where you have gone,
but how could that be when,
your heaven and hell were beside me all along. 

As I drew a mournful drag,
from the fag, which still sagged,
a wave passed me through and though,
and I thought, what really could have become of you? 
'We break into a flock of pigeons upon our death '
I remember I had once said,
when we were sitting in that crack,
of that gigantic wall, of Cannaught Place. 
So could it be that you are a flock of pigeons now? Or maybe a colony of ants? A pride of lions, somewhere in japan?

But as the fag finished and I came back,
it made me feel hollow,
that you were dead. 
I could have dreamed more,
maybe to the point of
your coming back,
but I couldn't dream anymore,
the sense of loss was much to bear."
So, he woke up in cold sweat, and wrote,
what came to his head?