The Dead

Imagine that the dead become
the one pure beam of light
that lights the soul -
that they see all living things
as essences of colour, strength
of reds and blues and greens,

that a table absorbs the life-force
of all the hands that made it,
touched it, lived with it, absorbing
like a kitchen-roll all the colour
of life's energy.

An antennae a building would then be,
giving-off, glowing, all colour
under the sun absorbed from
the humans biding-in,
it would burn with all the life
force charged by fingers'
use that touched its walls, its doors.

Imagine then, that the dead
inhabit beauty where all is pure and
true, they don't see me or you
but they see our power our
aura of orange or green or white
all life force glowing bright
like beacons.

Imagine living with such vibrancy, such strength -
God would have to pull a blind
to let them sleep,
give them peace of mind.

Perhaps a restless spirit
is merely an insomniac
drowning in the light and power
of all the living things it sees.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem