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.