You know you’re reaching adult-hood when
you start attending funerals.
To begin to comprehend the reality and the
surrealness of death.
Taking comfort in ancient words as
custom words are useless.
My chorus of homeless thoughts
struggling bearly for breath.
Hoping the good souls sail on
and their chosen endevour rewards them.
For living is a choice to be taken,
it can be forced from time to time.
In death, golden tea is poured over
memories happy and sad, your reflection at its clearest.
Luke-warm, spirits surround us
turning time back.
Sips intake a being no more,
until the drops are gone, then you can rest.


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