At one moment they are there and then-
they are gone,
in a casket, or as ashes in an urn, or with their body parts sold or donated to some college for research,
one way or another, they are gone,
plunged into the transcendent mysteries;
death is more mysterious than life.
It’s almost satirical if it wasn’t so scary,
so we respect it, hoping for some measure of grace
when it is our time.
All throughout history,
whether in a sarcophagus or in a tomb or in a coffin or buried in the dirt, people have respected people who have died;
bodies that were warm and lively become,
cold, pale and clammy, we,
as homo-sapiens,
try to preserve the empty sack of skin these poor souls once lived in,
by protecting their bodily shells with our feeble inventions,
that will also rot, and will also taste death.
Death is an inescapable reality, so powerful, so we respect the hell out of death.
Because what else can we do but stand in awe of the one who conquers every King, Monarch, Pharaoh, Ruler,
inventor, wise man, foolish man, soldier, father, mother, child, and will eventually lay hold of
you, me, us,
when we die.
We just hope the killer does us gently.
As ashes are scattered into the open meadow, the wind
blowing them along, loved ones watch, a body
reduced to an urn
float in the warm breeze, kiss the flower petals, dance before it joins again with the
dirt.
Faint hope
that one day it will take root, fertilize, sprout forth
into
what it was before
or maybe
better.
Today someone is thinking about this
in their room writing
a will
on a cliff contemplating
at a funeral crying
sitting next to someone
beep-beep-beep-beep-beep
praying;
for death to be swallowed up in victory.
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