Some Things Have Died in  Death Poems   

It's cold out on the balcony and you
haven't told me if you feel
alive or not, that's how it works

I'm standing holding your hair in my hands
wherever you've gone they're keeping you
likely lilac fresh; soon you'll be embalmed,

only then we'll view all you fixed up
twisted in your last dream, still lying
right to our fucking faces, I hope

By echoshindig

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Other poems by echoshindig:

• Astronaught
• Bedroom Companions
• Brown Pantsuit
• Closet: Early Morning
• Comfortable Lies
• Drainroom
• Escaping the Undead
• Everday Machines
• Hospital Cafeteria
• Housewarming Party: The Uninvited
• Inertia of the Overworked
• Inventory
• Last-We-Met
• Letter to the Gardener
• Liberty, Part One
• Love and Summerdust
• No Repairs
• Old Illnesses
• Sister-Fire
• Some Things Have Died
• Sunday Conversations with a Quieter Life
• Undead Ambitions
• What Winter Damns
• When It's Quiet in Your Kitchen