Sylvia
Being dead is not so
bad. Life offers worse things.
Face it. We come we go.
Leave the frame to decay.
Peel skin and hair away.
Rise up on wings.
When you walk past me now
you do not see my face.
You do not touch my brow.
I had to leave this world
my eager soul unfurled,
found a new place.
Still I hover near you
your hand, I gladly caress.
These feelings. Are they true
if there is not a body
(as in arm, flank, or knee)
nor heart to mess?
Dead is dead, I am told.
Yet cold and numb implore.
Something touched, warm and bold,
pulls at my formless bliss.
A new delicious kiss.
I still want more.
Lisa Vihos
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