The essence of death lingers
The skeletons rattle their bones to wake all of the dead poets teetering on the fence.
I saw in your eyes that tired-of-life pagination of thoughts scrambling to crossover,
And the sting of death happened:
Thinking we are born to die,
Of stereotypes of creepy trees, dark skies, hands from graves and ghostly figures mistaken for
I smile of knowing.
Your essence pulls me from humanity’s grave that rejoices of those departed and of those who
The dead with their bony fingers begin to write on the chalkboard of the living, leaving a
tattered flesh behind regurgitated by rote.
Echoing messages not borrowed but taken by the kindness of the invisible.
Your words breathe heavily as your fingers spark to that which transcends arbitrary language
behind a language of knowing.
And yet you continue to whisper messages in a bottle to the living who will listen.
A myriad of tales with so little words-so much meaning.
Red light mystic-they wish us to see.
You left me a lingering you.
Documenting a life transcending a wisp of goose bumps.
A flame of another birth rises like a phoenix from the ashes to prepare you to rest a little
To see you through the door of the living once again.
I will hold the lantern for you.
“Welcome to the other side.”