I stand alone before the open grave
Questions burgeoning–why should I grieve?
Your empty shell has long let free your ghost
Rejoin the molecules of that make the world
Where did you go? And will you yet return?
Have I a prayer of seeing you again?
I fling a fist of dirt below again
Upon the box ensconced inside the grave
But when I leave, I know I won’t return
This field of stone is not a place to grieve
My fate is to remain in this cold world
Haunted by your ever-present ghost
But honestly? I don’t believe in ghosts.
I guess I should aver it once again
“All that’s real and true is of this world,”
I intone, my voice sober, firm, and grave.
“If you feel loss, it’s for yourself you grieve.”
Grief only takes, gives nothing in return.
Shake it off and to your life return
Go through the motions, corporeal ghost!
No one cares to spectate while you grieve
Or hear your wailing, see you cry again
They wonder, is her depression now so grave
That she cannot enjoy that of this world?
But it’s overrated, isn’t it? This world?
You work, you sleep, to work you must return
Laboring from cradle until grave
Reenact the scene, you vengeful ghost
The human rituals, repeat, again
What life is this, the loss of which you grieve?
But still it lingers, self-indulgent grief.
The truth about this vale of tears, the world
Is sin absolved, then acted out again.
I venture forth with hope, only to return
To haunt the wounds, invisible as ghosts.
What cannot die can never have a grave.
I’m of this world but wish not to return.
Forgive again when I can finally ghost.
I’m tired of grief. My peace is in the grave.