The Dead

Its a strange thing to view an open coffin

 

What oddity to find within my head

Mine eyes are clear, and yet this heart is blind

When faced amongst the faces of the dead,

These empty shells that life has left behind.

No stirring thoughts cause furrows in my brow,

Their darkened gaze brings no divining light,

Dry were my eyes before; dry are they now,

And day, remaining day, turns not to night.

The coldness moves me not as they not move

Till realization cuts me like a knife.

The stillness in us both will make to prove,

When, what but fear of death makes proof of life?

Perhaps it is and always has been so

The dead look on the dead but do not know.