What they don’t tell you about the dead
Is that they go on living,
Animated, indefinite, unforgiving.
Passing you by in the street, or occupying your head
Like a hermit crab drifting shell to shell,
In search of somewhere just to pause,
To breathe, to think of mistakes and flaws,
Before moving on, ever without a place to dwell
Like nomads of old, who walked the world,
Shifting through forests, over hill and dale,
Along coastlines, on ships setting sail,
Or in caves, on cliffs, in corners, curled.
Let it not be said
That they are gone.
To lives they touched, they’ll always belong.
And a memory relived can never truly be dead.