On the dead and the living.
The dead are hungry. They roam the caverns
of the mind for fresh provisions: despair,
self-doubt, misery. The feeding table
stretches far beyond any fixed limit,
and their stomachs will never be sated
with the food we do not dare to give them:
our dreams, our hopes, the things we call human.
But I cling firmly to life, and life turns
my eyes away from the ranks of the dead.
This, even as the night sky grows sable
in its blush, is vital to determine
not what the dead owe me (nor I them)
but the future and my role in it:
one grasping for hope from the thinning air.
Note
I chose to share this poem with dVerse for their Open Link Night on Thursday, February 27, 2025.
Between Two Rivers 
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