It’s a problem for the dead
The feeling that it’s all still there
It’s a trait that they
And some of the living
Can
Unknowingly
Sometimes share
To make the matter worse
They’re pushed towards the brightest of bright lights
By well-wishers armed with bells, books and candles
I often feel
It’s more than many of the un-quiet departed
Should be expected
Reasonably
To handle
Perhaps it would be better to take them quietly to one side
Just explain
Don’t you remember?
It all ended
It’s over
The heart gave up
You died



With that said
Things can be as they were intended
No more hanging around with shadows
Rattling knobs on cellar doors
Being the prickle on the skin of loved ones
Enough of being the cold spot
In the empty hall
Give it up
Let it go
Slip away
Then we can all get some sleep
Instead of lying rigid in the dark
Eyes wide
Waiting for the obligatory midnight moan
But more importantly
There’ll be no more unwanted
Nocturnal rearranging of the furniture
Because
More than anything else belonging to the living
Their tables and chairs
Should always be left well alone