Recently I've had several friends and family lose loved ones. Sitting at my kitchen table with my heart full for us and them, I jotted this down. It's been on my mind for a while, but I finally got it on paper.
Those Who Beat Still
Death, your victory.
Death, your sting.
They say you have neither
And I suppose you don't.
You are a faceless incident -
A moment,
The briefest of encounters that we endure only once.
But how you linger.
Your hand is swift but the slap still burns.
For some you satisfy:
You are relief,
You are rest,
You are the sigh of sleep -
Cool sheets.
But to those who beat still
You are "never more,"
You are "no hope"
You are regret.
Searing regret.
Some speak of comfort, a better plan,
But we still scream at the sky,
Stare at the wall,
Beat on our chests
And beg, "What was this for?
How have we failed?
What have they done?"
A better plan,
A higher power,
An unknown purpose.
An empty glass for a man dying of thirst.
Death, be quick.
Death, be sure.
Your wake is brutal enough.
Pity those who beat still -
Those who lay in the grass and mix their tears with Mother Earth's dew,
Those who panic for tomorrow,
Those whose thoughts are, "Why?
What now?"
You've stolen our soulbeats.
Their turn is over.
Ours has just begun.
Same is broken.
Familiar is askew
For those who beat still.
