• Mark

From a middle chapter

When someone you love dies,

your current language expires.

First thing to go is the tongue.


Then, all treasure you buried rots.

And curse the man who seeks to plunder,

for they were spoken for.


When someone dies,

you take everything they ever were and

stuff it hastily into an airless bag.

But really,

all that's left is memory.


Artifacts reduce to component.


And,

then you find memory is a fragile liar.


All you can really have of them is those tiny shards

you let cut you deep along the years.

And those became smooth and worn and soft edged.

Eventually they themselves become stories of stories,

and the legends outgrow the source.


It’s distracting to believe in a better place,

a better time.

That perfect tomorrow without all this life.


None of us are coming back. 

All we had we found fit to loose. 

       

So,

when someone you love dies,

you die as well,

and what's left is tangential.


At least until the next time,

and then over all again.

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