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Poetry by | August 9, 2015

Your soul’s time has run out
and your near-empty husk now breathes its last:
a shimmering white light exits its mouth
and in the following second the light in its eyes

dies

and i mourn your (un)timely departure

while gripping the hand of the husk that you left.

My own soul grieves,

my eyes cry waterfalls,
my mind goes numb,
my vision blurry,
my hands shaky,

but even then I have to face the reality
that even I know that you will never come back

because you cannot come back

because they have cut up your empty husk
and dipped it in formalin
(which is totally lethal, by the way)

because they have locked it up in a wooden box
and dressed it up for a gaudy display
while they mourn and take one last look at you
and “pay their last respects”

while they stuff their mouths with the cakes at the wake
and down the stuff with coffee
(but I presume they are eating away the pain)

and because they have only just crammed the wooden box
inside a concrete box
one that holds barely enough oxygen
to keep a man alive
(okay, maybe for ninety minutes, but still)
and they have forgotten to take into account
that you are claustrophobic

and that cement boxes over wooden boxes
do not have even basic facilities

and so I am worried that you will drown in your shit.

So you do not come back to your husk

because you cannot come back to your husk,
because going back again would be just torture,
because they killed you by asphyxiation,

and so your husk just goes back to dust

which is a pity for such a beautiful husk

and sometimes I wonder if it is still worth it
to break both boxes and pick up all the pieces

ten years later when just the bones remain.

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