Funerals

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“At the end of the fight, a tombstone white…”

The dying never stops.

Time and again,
I watch as a
slow wagon train
of black hearses
delivers friends
and family to
the promised land.

I feel the departed.
I see the mourners.
I know death’s blank stare.
I participate in
the ritual of parting.

The graves are
the final subdivision
of life. Neat rows
of somber memorials
laid out like new
housing developments;
small plots of earth
mortgage free at last.

The dead have found
a home. Perhaps peace.

We, the living, must
return to life’s discord.

Soon enough, we shall
take up residence in
this land of repose.

Until then, we must
love the beating hearts,
remember those gone,
be brave and awake,

square our shoulders,
take a breath, soldier on.

Even though we know,
the dying never stops.