Treasure Island

Christopher Withers


less than the dust


in death, the fear is absolved,
in life, the fear is rash and bold,
avoidance of our darkest night,
removes not the fear, from our sight.
memories end on final breath:
cheats death of life’s recollect.
the dead held silent in their state,
the mourners left to contemplate.
as we mourn not those yet to come,
why hold in sadness those now gone?
they lie, past sleep, in unknown grace,
oblivious to our grief and ache.
in the closing of our own life’s book,
we ourselves become unlooked,
and each cold memory once held close,
falls away: less than the dust.

Submitted: Sunday, March 09, 2008

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