The Dead Burying The Dead

I buried my father at noon,

Where I buried my memories of him,

Years before he went too.

The canopy of silver maples now shelters his body,

As it shelters those dead memories.

And so I wondered as I buried him,

Will he be gone or will he haunt me still.

Will the babel subside or will it only grow,

Lone but with friends,

Hiding under the silver maple,

Happy under the shadow that isn’t here,

Here where I chase demons and angels,

To feel a joy that is only fleeting.

As I stand over these graves,

The echoes that are of laughter,

That resurrect all that I thought was dead,

Reminding me of what I once lost,

Of what I want to remain lost.

As to find it would be to find hurt,

To find past and weakness and guilt.

So I want to bury it all,

Bury it deep,

So the wind won’t disinter the rot.

And forget while needing to forgive,

The life I baptized as death.

So maybe I am the dead one,

As what is a life where all I have will always be lost again,

Where I never wish upon a star,

With my hope as fragile as the twilight.

As I fear this will break too,

And shatter as my soul did when,

I buried my heart at noon.