For the living.

You may think I’m morbid but every time 

I watch the flames of the pyre it feels

as though the fire reclaims it’s own. 

In the end we are all ash, returning to the earth 

From whence we were born. In my mind

I see you, standing by another pyre

Quite unlike this. I see you turn your face

Away from the smoke, the distinct smell

Of burning flesh as a breeze ripples 

Across the river and you blink 

Away a tear and turn to me and say,

“Life is for the living, never forget.”

What then, do we do with the dead? 

The ones that live within us, the fingers 

That curl towards ours and delve

Into our sleep? Where do we display

The urns that contain memories of love 

And laughter? Where do we place the bouquets

Of freshly cut tears? And how do we scatter

The ashes when they are interred in our bones?

I know you walk with me, surely, as

The moon, the sun, the stars. And I live 

Like you’d want me to, never once forgetting

That life is for the living. Of course it is.


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