The Chain Of Days
By: Linda Imbler

The chain of days and the constant succession of the dead:
Hard fathers,
Supine maidens with bright, creamy complexions,
Everyone's selected beloved,
Young men at the height of their bronzed manliness,
The youngest taken only as a last resort.

Wooden or steel frameworks of the cadavers' stage surrounds them,
along with pretty formations of flowers.

The living do not know how easy it is -
the straight forwardness of dying anywhere.

The dead have forgotten
the fundamental impact of grief upon the living,
have overlooked
the shock of our loss that moans inside our mortal chord.

The deceased lie as clones.
There's no pantomime,
petrified limbs frozen in time,
their voices joining the chant of the great silence.

They use these newly developed skills to pose,
to display the cynosure of their rock star recognitions,
seemingly expressing beauty in the silence,
testifying contentment in the stillness.

In the usual galaxy of the visitations, sympathies emerge.
There is indiscriminate unmasking of what is left,
and suitable saints and sinners are revealed.

Some of their essence must go elsewhere,
because after centuries of their numbers swelling,
we are not hemmed in where we stand,
so they must be leaving room for us
to tie into the link.

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