Ruminations of the Dead

The dead ruminate in their sleep

and their sleep

is a very deep

and fire quenching

sleep.

The dead…

some live deep inside

our heads;

not so dead.

Others live only

in their deep

and ruminating sleep.

They are truly dead.

The dead think about

the things that were,

about the Book perhaps

they never read,

Some think about the book

that was never written.

The whiteness

of it’s blank pages is

a silent nightmare

in their head.

Some think about

the words

that were never said,

Some about

and the words

that were better

left unsaid

in the world.

Some think about the thoughts

that crystallized into

words, acts and deeds.

Some think about the anger,

Some about the peace.

Some think of those

left still alive,

some of whom are blind

and sleep

while they’re left

still standing on their feet.

They can’t divine

or read or write

the Book

before them.

Some think only of

the child ,

of the children’s grief,

About their suffering,

About how they long

To be whole.

The thoughts

of the dead float amongst

the monotone drone

of a monk’s prayerful song

and the single strum

and twang on the instrument of soul.

The ruminations of the dead

are long,

bodies now long gone,

they contemplate,

the bag of fertilizer

that they were,

and that we are,

to be spread across

the fabric of the universe.

Their ruminations

move beyond.

They think of the

gate

and of the broad

and upward tree

that spreads arms

well past the ages

unto the ages

and into an embrace beyond.

 

“From Ruminations of The Dead” by PWChaltas