1.

Drifting through the empty, sunlit stillness
of our broken minds, we weep at the futility
of reprieve for the dead.

Remembering the living, then.
Dark places,
shadows of the past.
And who remaining will have won relief?
Surely no claim to spirit,
its movement being stifled or staggered --
true vision of the Self gone blind.

Godot won't be coming.
We can no longer wait.

And upon our signal,
the living must go on.
But do not speak of meaning.

So where to begin? Where do I begin?

2.

The limousine door --
large, empty, open-armed,
behind us --
catches up the evening's light.
Along the window's edge,
subtle hints of black and gray
begin to appear.

And the dull white wash of your face,
your grief-stricken face,
all that's left behind.

But come: We must go forward.
Remembering the living,
we must return.

"We are carriers of this disease,
this pirated charade.
And it is not in our bodies
where the nothingness resides."

"Then why," you ask me, "am I so afraid?"

Why am I so afraid?

Over against the pale, pink, purple sky,
there is no great solace.
A single glimpse,
fleeting, gone --
and there is nothing.

So where to begin? Where do I begin?