I stood at the back of the funeral room. Very still.
Black dress. Black coat. It’s cold.
Purposely alone. Ears closed.
Not wanting to hear the tirade of sweet lies.
Did they not know you were already dead? I think they did.
They walk with the dignity of a funeral crowd into the tea room.
I can see them chatting happily through the window.
“What a fantastic guy he was. Cheese or meat sandwich?”
I sit outside, next to you. No one can see. No one bothers to look.
Sinking to fresh earth, I ask you why you did that to yourself.
Why did you cling to that which fed you a slow poison?
Why did you betray that which was guard to your soul?
There is no reply.
The words get taken by the chill wind.
You cry in your sleep.
The tears never see the light of day.
The sadness is not this death.
You are not even dead. You are just over there.
The sadness is the other death – the death that doesn’t end.
The one that follows behind, ever present with its grey, hollow touch.
Walk a bit further. There is a different land not far away.
The people in it have the magic to break the icy fingers of the great death.
I heard that you don’t even have to pay. However, you have to find their door.
It is only found by those who pay the other price.
This poem is from Love’s Longing