There can be death in life, with no body cold and still;
the person gone but form remains, recognizable,
in the material at least, but not in the emotional, or in
mind, or thought, or action, or belief, and yet dis-
connected in a way never imagined; as if the warm,
loving flesh had been chilled and made hard by inner
changes; as if the one we love had been possessed.
No bell to toll in this world, but perhaps in realms beyond,
no words of eulogy to be uttered, no coffin, grave or final
letting go, of something which no longer exists, and yet,
this phantom, corporeal but ephemeral, living in physical
form and yet not, in all the ways that made him who he was,
from baby, through child, to youth and man; all gone, as if
he had never been, so changed and unknown; transformed.
Can someone return from a living grave; throw back the soil
of dark consciousness, struggle from the depths toward
the light; grasp again at who they were, and what they were,
and in the doing, be restored to themselves and to those who
love them and who grieve for the loss of something which
cannot be quantified in any material sense, but which aches
and longs for the return of that which the heart knows?
The bell does toll but it has a silent, empty voice. As if,
such questions challenge fate and the fine, crimped writing
of the angels; as if, acceptance, trust and surrender are
the only way to survive this life in death, where that which
was can no longer be found; he who was cannot be seen,
and only grief can be thrown, like dry sods onto the casket,
echoing sombre, dull, waiting for heaven to weep again.
Perhaps the dew will moisten withered, hard earth of memory,
and call for life to break the bounds which hold so tight,
that Soul may see itself and find within the shadowed mind,
a thread of love which leads through caverns deep and halls
so wide, tunnels connected, threading ever upwards; the
siren song of hope, which holds eternal, a mother to her
child; a force beyond the realms of Pluto’s world.