death can be the happiest thing,
though not thought gay nor won
to drum the drums made for the king
and to listen to the doves

as I thought of death before I died
not once was it glad or glee
and most of us fear and dread that moment
our souls are finally free

when does the night become us?
at what moment is the soul raised to the sky?
death, say some
and some ask why

the stars are dead,
and because we watch them miles and miles from where they rest
we are still fascinated by
these flames that hang in shapes and forms that make up our night sky

but what if our night sky is really not made up of bones?
if the stars don’t dwell on our dead bodies or take pride in a corpse,
I would in fact believe that
the sky does make up your soul

I do believe your heart's the moon
and constellations map out your veins
so when they ask if our souls look down from above,
I'll say I'll ask when I see you again

and at that moment I gazed up; all I saw
was darkness and emptiness and a non-dimensional horizon.
it was an empty canvas with the exception
of entirely black.
but all of a sudden, little specks appeared,
almost like the moon's reflection on dark, salty water.
rippling waves on the black fickle surface like
the twinkling stars that night.
my ignorant eyes looking at the
faint light reflected on your face.
and that was the sky
I never saw again.

for somehow we remember
again we live out what
we once knew

and those precious moments
are stacked away
and scratched on our hearts

yet somehow we forget