Uncommon Sense Poem by Ima Ryma

The boy perhaps was nine or ten.
At first he spoke reluctantly
Of how people would die and then
They'd reappear for him to see.
He seemed to trust me as we spoke,
Pleading with me to find a way
To rid him of all these dead folk,
That haunted him each night and day.
I asked if he would look about,
And see if dead ones were in view.
He looked around as if in doubt;
Then said to me, 'I just see you.'

At last it hit me, what he said,
Because he saw me, I was dead.