Except in dreams where we remember
What they did and said in life
Even this may be false
Like a glitch in recollection
Our own bias played onto the tape
That makes it skew and sway
And ultimately leads to data loss.
There is no perfect record
No way of holding every thought
All the minute details that compose
Our being gone with our passing
The only trace that which we keep
Smell of fresh baked bread
Faces smiling over a dinner table
Wishing this joy were lasting.
We have no way of hearing the dead
Their fear of going beyond us
The ignominy of plaques and headstones
Biting in turn with wrath of worms
Living was all they knew
And the leaving it tears them to shreds
Roaming like disgruntled shoppers
In a mall full of graven urns.
We have no way of knowing the dead
Being not dead ourselves trapped in limbo
Seeing them as wraiths or poltergeists
They veer out in dreams like human beings
And make demands of our hands
Seeing me they mouth with no sound
And I follow them quietly into dream court
Witness for both blind angels and the seeing.
© shaun patrick green 2011
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