deepundergroundpoetry.com
Cast Out
Dead to me? Don't be silly.
Death begets grief and regret;
it spawns sorrow in stillborn wishes
that echo in unbidden moments.
I mourn my dead.
You shall be suffered to live.
To breathe. To subsist as less than.
As substantive as motes in the dark.
Thrive there. Or not.
So removed from my reality
even memories fail to linger.
Dead to me? Don't be silly.
I mourn my dead.
You, living, lack the ghost
with which to haunt me.
Death begets grief and regret;
it spawns sorrow in stillborn wishes
that echo in unbidden moments.
I mourn my dead.
You shall be suffered to live.
To breathe. To subsist as less than.
As substantive as motes in the dark.
Thrive there. Or not.
So removed from my reality
even memories fail to linger.
Dead to me? Don't be silly.
I mourn my dead.
You, living, lack the ghost
with which to haunt me.
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