Dark Matter

.

Believe as the dead do--
they stretch their hand,
taste the truth.
Do we recognize the dead?
We see them as spots,
transluscent particles--weakened;
yet we fear their God;
we think ourselves strong.
We feed our daily lives to obscurity,
waiting dumbly until the moment speaks us into ruin.
I live alone with the dead.
They listen; they know my name.
When they greet you tonight,
show them favor if you are wise.
For all of us, dead and quick,
answer to no source,
but our own.

Normally poetry goes here when I am brave enough to post it, but this is also on CV. In a way, it's a blog in poem form.