Communing with the Dead

			
Though you still live, that you sit and breathe at this table, you are, I must concede, no more.
 
Alive, but dead for careless living. I concede the game, admitting the loss later than you glimpsed the win.
 
Lament, no, but silent agonies sowed some years ago now in time blossom, bloom, and show their monocarpic colors.
 
Passion-faded and winter white
 
I sing a song in memorized Greek or Latin, and you understand nothing of it, but you smile at the triumph you ascribe to the doing, not seeing the nothing that has been done.
 
Damn this living death, this dying death. The living know no other way, can do nothing else.
 
Are you tired? Are you in want of sleep? Rest then, pray you, so that you might rise again.
 
Peace, or something like it, comes at the thought. You are dead to me. As ghosts we will live.
 
I cannot forgive your trespasses. Nor can I repay my debts. Infinite, both, and to each other unrecognizable.
 
Here at our table you wait and die. Vapid breath, life leaves your chest. The unaccompanied heart swells to fill, and swelling nudges humour and leaks a tear.