Tuesday, 2 June 2015
A Poem about Death
people spoke of the living
like they speak of the dead.
people would go around declaring
how wonderful everyone else is;
how kind they are;
how, in spite perhaps
of outward appearances,
their hearts are made of gold.
People would cherish urns
of dandruff and nail clippings;
forgive each other almost anything;
treat each bad word as sacrilege.
Everyone would go out of their way
to attend the birthday parties
of distant relatives, declaiming it
“the right thing to do.”
living itself would become an achievement.
The news would be a rolling dispatch
of everyone who made it through the day,
and when they died
that they weren’t that great anyway.