drift past while you cogitate,
inaudible, colorless,
and unable to be named.
The sound of nobody's voice
ignites jealousy
as you talk,
like a stone might,
to the gravity of the situation:
How the hell did any of us
get to essence
from before?
Was there light
before breath? Your heart fights
to remember.
Or is no one
led back home
by the slow claps and low talk
which they heap on
fallen heroes
as they're cast into
the after?
