They arent really there.
I know that much.
They dance above the cemeteries and race the sun.
The branches of dead trees reaching out to them, trying to keep them of this world.
Swollen oaks burdened by the trail of memories and regrets left in their wake.
They arent really there.
It seems that way.
Their fine suits pressed and as black as midnight.
With a great wax candle atop a derby that bounces upon their heads.
While they dance.
While they leap.
While they enjoy their silent laughing.
They arent really there.
I'd like to think that.
They never tire, and never frown, their faces painted like a macabre mime.
I never hear them speak.
I've never heard them speak.
Not when they came for father.
Nor when they came for mother.
I just heard the soft tap tap tap of their careful feet on hard wood.
And the relaxed sigh of the dead's final rest.
They arent really there.
I still say to myself.
Its not long before I hear them in my hall, coming for me.
The same silent laughter going amongst them.
The same comforting smile upon their faces.
The same caring handling they afforded my loved ones.
And the same lovely dance that I've wanted to take since I was a child.
They arent really there.
And when the time for your own waltz with them comes.
You'll wonder the same thing about yourself.
