They do not tell you the Dead will ride you so far
You will almost join them, you
half-alive, standing between meaning
and meaning, the stuff you purchase
and the stuff that matters.
They do not tell you, but then you know
the dead who ride you matter, and so
you listen, here, in sleep and waking
and on-coming cars that aren’t your death and
warriors and villains and blood-soaked earth.
Her death, and your life, flowing out
where later weeds take hold, and flowers
remembering what others forget, remembering
what others could not hear, there,
between stone and stone and earth.
They do not tell you you shall die their deaths
Nor what you will become, still living
half sleeping, half waking, blooded
vessel flowing over from rim,