Talks With The Dead

He converses too often
with the dead. The talks
Remembered, taken in
Deep the words said.
He sorts through afterwards
The conversations, what
Was said by who to whom,
And how was said. And as
He spoke took in the eyes
Of those speaking, the open
Happiness there, the lack
Of worries, absence of fear
Of their mortality, being there
In that other place, just a finger
Tip, a cool breath’s feel away.
He sees them, they pass by,
Time of no concern, no pressures
For them anymore, just the talking,
Soft conversations with those
Who have moved on, those who
Felt death’s kiss and touch over much.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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