This is life.
Never doubt it.
Never fight it.
Never face it.
This is life.
Love it.
Live it.
Leave it.
But don't expect me.
I won't wait for you.
I won't hurt for you.
I won't cry for you.
There is an empty row,
In the church pews.
A body is laying there.
Blood flows from its eyes.
From its nose.
From its mouth.
Death is upon it.
No one goes near.
No one speaks.
No one looks.
They are blind to it,
Yet they know it is there.
They feel it.
They sense it.
They smell it.
Oh yes, they know.
But I know better.
I see your body.
Laying on the pew.
Blood seeping from you.
But don't expect me.
I won't carry your body.
I won't sing your praise.
I won't read your eulogy.
People are sobbing now.
The open casket shows your face.
I look at it without pity.
Your death is your own.
I held no gun to your head.
I held no fire to your house.
I held no knife to your throat.
Your finger pulled the trigger.
Your heart stopped forever.
Your life ended then.
Figuratively.
Metaphorically.
Literally.
I pulled the trigger.
I burned your house.
I slit your throat.
Your blood on my hands.
May it never wash off?
Yet I do not fear.
Do not expect me to grieve.
Do not expect me to repent.
Do not expect me to care.
We pulled the trigger.
We burned the house.
We slit the throat.
Don't expect me to meet you there.
Don't expect me to see you later.
Don't expect me to call you.
You've dug your own grave.
So be buried.
