Dead Things

Somewhere, there is singing.
In a place where this dry corpse
has been left behind,
there is music, light, color,

making a lie of the corpse
that hangs so prominently
in plain view.

And we are faced with a choice,
to believe in the power of death,
of the end of things,

or the afterlife,
the song that rises beyond
our failures and brokenness,

that sings of freedom,
of corpses left behind
not dry husks of what once was,

but promises of what will be.

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The picture was taken on my back door screen. You can click on it for a larger view.

This poem began as a question, wondering how this creature managed to leave it’s perfect shell behind. It was all about the bonds of perfectionism and how those bonds are prisons. But somehow, it turned into this, something entirely different.

Isn’t that how life generally works?

Tom