The world would grind on
when you lose your breath;
when, like a log, what’s left
of you is heaved into the earth,
shovelfuls of dirt hitting
your resting box hewn from
any tree of the carpenter’s fancy –
udara, melina, iroko, oak, mahogany –
who really cares?
Mourners would wipe dry eyes
And get on a feasting match –
God bless the dead
whose death
has brought us this bread.
Family would war to death
if you were of mega means;
some tear to shreds
even for meagre means.
A memorial a year if they cohere,
and, maybe, a reluctant visit to your
resting place, with paparazzi in tow,
just for the show.
Then, in time, everyone forgets
even your fondest jokes.
Now you’re but a distant
thought, a faint memory,
for even those who remember
near their inevitable end.
It’s not for want of love
or empathy; life burdens each
with not just a cross that even
the living forget the living
in this forsaken hellhole.
It seems cold and calls that the world just moves of. Those of us that keep our grief, our last rements of love close to us. Lest we forget.
You’re right. There are those who keep their grief but most don’t, in my view.
Damn!
I do hope someone really mourns for me when I’m gone and remembers me fairly regularly.
I remember my father almost everyday, I still cry sometimes when I do, and he’s been gone 18 years.
Great work.
Immediate family members tend to remember, but even then, it’s mostly a faint memory. Out of sight has often proved to be out of mind.
Your last words strike a chord… strong words indeed… thank you for sharing with us🌞
Thanks. I’ve really been recently concerned about what happens when we are gone. I’ve seen people go without the world batting an eyelid. I guess it’s going to be the same for the rest of us.
This is my favourite poem. It captures the stark realities of human existence. It is detailed in its chosen area of concentration without losing its poesy . I would suggest a recast of the last four lines
Thanks. I’ll take another look.