People die. And with that they leave behind an abyss. In one room, amongst sob and shock and stare and a sinking feeling looming large your world would have fallen apart. And nobody knows.
Nobody ever can. The cynic smirks when they offer you words.
What were they thinking? Don’t they know that moment words are just sounds, echoes of a redundant now, which simply glide above and around you, and never through you? That moment all you have passing through you is just a colossal barrenness, engulfing your blood pumping machine which resonates with the raucous white noise of a simple truth. People die.
Words never seem shallower. More crimson. I don’t know what helps. I merely silently stand. Alongside.
"Donot stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there,I did not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle morning rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifitng rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Donot stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there,I did not die."