Like the dead, we lust for that light

that’s purer just beyond the next horizon,

even as we ache for home,

for what we know.

Being left alive

means being left behind

but being dead means the same.

So the dead walk with us,

inhabiting our shadows,

because we can't let them rest.

No matter the season,

the dead lie with us

time and again,

because we dream them back into this life.

Tonight, as you lie alone

let your soul be still,

you'll feel them

like the merest ripples

from pebbles dropped into a placid lake.

We bury our dead alive,

and that’s why they gather

at the feasts of the living,

hungry for the bitter and the sweet,

savoring our tears.

And like the living,

damn their own remembering.