digging up the dead…

I’m sorry.

The dead do not speak for us to hear them.

All unanswered questions must be jam-jarred for a rainy day,
The arguments sit pickled, part done when the chills come on.
The love yous linger but they are not heard here.

There is no perfection in stasis.

You might conjure it in a minute, for just that moment of relief,
But it is nothing real.
Only time ripens,
And it always makes us wait.

It is hard to lose someone in certainty and find doubt,
Anger you can’t shout out,
Bitterness they can no longer seek to sweeten.
An unspoken sorry is hard to hear.

You can raise the dead,
Defile them,
Defy them.
You can dig up the dust with curses,
But they are burnt,
Long gone.
So say it and have done.

You can spit out your rage,
Smear it on strangers, lovers,
Muddy futures and make all alike.
But all is spent.

They rest.
Even when we do not.

It takes strength to let them be mistaken in their mistakes,
The lies they might have told us,
The truths they never said.

It takes peace to let the dead be.
Claim your own.

Don’t stay here,
Make your own moments.

Life is messy,
Love is imperfect.
Death doesn’t fix that.
Don’t kid yourself.

Perhaps he was a man,
As anyone else he’d die twice.
You wouldn’t want that.

Forgiveness is the last gift,
The truest love letter,
The final freedom rite in owning life.

 

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