Death

The living grieve over the dead.

Death is a strange affair.
In it, the dead actually survive,
the living die.

For the living,
the strings of life within untie,
to give birth to, a perennial river
of tears and loss.
While facing the world,
the living don’t show-
the river looks dry, no fuss.
But it surely runs deep.
Scars of loss creep up, and wounds blossom,
like cracks on the glass after it’s been smashed.
With death taking away the person
who was the glue,
will the glass ever shine again?

The living miss the dead.
The living and the dead were something;
they were a beautiful letter of life,
now the letter is washed away.
What remains is the white paper,
with a large blot of dark ink.

The dead escape in a majestic chariot;
while the living are imprisoned,
in the choking, damp air of past,
that’s never to return, but forever to haunt.

The dead appear in dreams and
vanish in daylight.
Like the moon. Or is it that,
like the moon, they stay quiet during the day,
just that we can’t see them
in the vibrant sun of apparent life?
To ensure, the living
whose memory is weak, don’t forget,
they conjure up milkily in the night.

The living perish from within,
stinking of flickering remorse;
accommodate a mansion in their heart,
for the memory of the dead.
The dead live in that mansion.

Death is a strange affair.
In it, the dead actually survive,
the living die.

The living and the dead are separated by death.
One keeps waiting, and even wanting,
the other, even if it desires to,
never comes back.

It is a strange affair.
The living and the dead seem
to be frozen in time;
the time of death.