Memory's hands whisper in your soul
and yet you misplace your devotion,
throwing flower speeches of undying amor
upon the graves of those you lost
in those years of missed connections.
I promise there is catharsis here,
our words build cathedrals in the soul
strongholds of calcified emotion
outlasting the crumbling of the earth
beneath your painted toes.
Grace abounds in plenty here,
and flowers are better spent
on human company
than left to waste away
on the cold Carrera marble angels
almost swallowed up by
weeds that tremble at your approach.
Death is death, my dear.
The glamour of the tomb
is only a whitewashed lie.
We are not followed into the abyss
by the ones who loved us in our vitality.
The tears you pour out
like ashes from a hallowed father's urn
cannot be counted beyond the divide
by the souls of our lost ones.
But do not spite the living
for their grief that crushes mountains
into pebbles to throw at birds
that wake them too early into remembrance.
You cannot throw dirt on the living
for their pain numbers more than stars
which are themselves the tears
of a living God, the memory
of endless human experience.
The sky is the final gravesite.
It holds the memories of all
that has been accomplished,
all that has vanished into dust
under centuries upon centuries
and the stars hold the great amor
we have left in our wake.