POETRY
Oh, For The Love Of Life
A Funeral For The Living
I often think,
and to my mind
it seems,
that people long
for a body to weep.
There’s no love
for the living,
no flowers
or prose,
hugs come by
as scarcely,
as a winter rose.
But once you’re gone,
your value
is born,
bartered to bidders,
who trade you
for tales.
“I knew them,
I met them,
I loved them…
back then.”
The trite chant
of mourners,
who gather
for a life
now spent.
To pay off
old debts,
with artificial
despair.
What a convoluted
farce,
to celebrate life
when it is
past.
Years of existence,
all practice
for a single
premier;
A theater where
the starring lead,
is only a tear.
Spare your
grief for
my brief
days.
Let your tears fall,
while I’m
awake.
Bring me flowers,
while I
live.
Attend to me,
as you would
my eulogy.
Do not wait
till you must
bury me,
have tea with me
tomorrow,
please.
Cover me
in warmth
instead of dust,
share your heart
before I pass.
Let my teary eyes,
meet your
loving smile.
Let my arms,
hold you
in the passing
moonlight.
Let us not fall,
for the allure
of loss,
or be more
enthralled,
by the end
and its cause.
Hold my funeral,
while I breathe
Sing my praise,
before I sleep.
Share your light,
before night
comes,
to carry me off
into the dark.
