It is difficult enough to make amends with the living;
When you still bear the bruises from the cuts they have left,
And words still linger from the air of their breath
As pain resides within, like an unwelcomed guest.  

So ponder the torment of having to forgive the dying;
When the real bruises can now be found on their skin,  
Rancid air filled with indecision, faded and thin.
As pain turns into guilt, ghostly and restless.