The Pyre

I see less number of people when a poor dies, 

And even though I don't know who that is, 

I still assume he was breathing yesterday, 

However cliche it sounds, he was available for someone 

Because he is not today, death on the hindsight is like a board exams

We all prepare for it unknowingly, and when it finally happens we stare at it blankly and go beyond 

And the long wait after that is tasteless I suppose

A prolong time perhaps 

I wonder what happens to the friends who attends the funeral,

Do they erase the number, forget the address 

Or spread the news in the family 

What happens to the memory of the dead 

Does it becomes topsoil 

Or the picture in the hall speaks to the lonely

Anytime they get your name on the tip of their tongue they bite it off

Or a woman cries discreetly when she touches the edges of the bed

When we die, we live long before we prepare to die.