The Dead Don’t Cry

He’ll remember them without ears,
as no one would listen, hear him,
when there was something he needed to say.
He’ll remember them without eyes,
as no one could see into him
when there was something he couldn’t say.
He’ll remember he didn’t belong
because everywhere felt wrong,
and he was wrong to be with them.

As there was no one to care for the words
aching to escape, and so he remained closed.
As there was a time he thought of caring.
As there was a time he thought suicide
was the final cry of a coward.

But now he knows what it truly is:
the cry of someone whose one wish
is to be heard just once,
is to be seen just once.

Is it no one’s fault but his own?

They’ll remember him without knowing
who he was, what he felt, what he needed,
why he made everyone smile and laugh.
They’ll remember his light
and how he brought light to them
while they were in darkness.
They’ll remember his need didn’t belong
because anywhere he was, was wrong,
and he was wrong to believe.

Was there a light in his darkness? Or had he
been forced to live in darkness?
Was that why he appeared so bright?
Was that why he struggled to keep shining
against the suffocating emptiness?

And they’ll ask in curious wonderment
why he faded so abruptly and melded
so tranquilly into slumber,
so hopelessly into slumber.

Was it no one’s fault but his own?

For darkness is all he knew,
is all he could feel in the bitter isolation
of the absence of the Light.
For the Light had forsaken him
and had given up on him
just as he had given up on the Light.
For with the Light he didn’t belong
as all he failed to do was wrong
and he was not worthy of the effort.

Perhaps he would have been worthy
if there was reason to try.
Perhaps effort and reason agreed to leave.
Perhaps they agreed there was no future.

No future but for his remaining light,
which will surely not be seen
on the other side of the universe
until it has shriveled into a fallen tear
on the corpse of his still drying cheek.

It is no one’s fault but his own.

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