Surrounded by silence.
All the words of grief,
all mournful cries,
were lost on him.
For the dead do not listen.

The bright sun would
no longer disturb his sleep.
with a blanket of darkness
now draped over him,
all he knows is black.
For the dead do not see.

He lay in eternal slumber,
different yet recognisable.
Loose jaw, sunken sockets.
Once tan skin, now eerily pale.
Rose coloured lips, now turned blue.
For the dead do not breathe

His eyes aren’t lit up with joy.
His cheeks aren’t stained with tears.
His fists aren’t clenched in anger.
His toes aren’t curled with fear.
He knows neither peace of chaos.
For the dead do not feel.

His body rots,
but his mind stays pristine.
His identity, his dreams,
his hopes, his dreams.
There’s still wind in his sails.
For the dead do tell tales.




BJMC (1 year)