Can the Dead Really Live Again?
I dream of you in vivid colours,
Happy moments, fleeting minutes that pass on all too soon.
You're long gone,
I don't hold out hope of ever seeing you again.
Is it too selfish to be thankful?
Not ageing into childhood.
Thought you'd stay a while longer,
But the scary whirlpool is now at rest.
I dream of you in colour.
It's hard not to. I'm not trying to.
You yell at me, disappointed,
I'm nothing like you and I'm nothing like me.
You're alive in my dreams,
Blood pumping the way it's supposed to,
Eyes vibrant, that's how they should be.
You're smiling. It's been a while since I've seen those gleams.
I dream of you in black and white,
We were laughing at the moon.
Mystical being. Spot on the phone.
Our feet meeting deserted streets,
That was our paradise.
Can the dead really live again?
We force them alive,
In pictures and memories and flashbacks and regrets.
That's how they'd want it,
We tell ourselves over and over again.
We mourn in silence and grieve out loud.
Last breathes and missed goodbyes.
We share our happy moments, our sad ones too.
We cling to hope of reunion and heaven.
We lull ourselves with prayers for their souls, ours too.
Can the dead really live again?
Not in an imagined paradise or multicoloured memories.
In broken hearts and disbelief and denial,
A death is a loss, no sugar-coating words.
It killed me on the day you left and still stabs me
When I dream of you in vivid colours. 🥀
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