When we die should it not be on a high note?
The tenor voice or the soprano scream of primal rage.
The point of no return, the moment of anguish,
The reading of the final book and its very last page.
Should we not go out in dignity with family around the bed?
With love in the room and not a word of negativity thought or said.
But that would be the unrealistic world for many die in the heat of battle,
We think of ourselves as humans and not mindless like a herd of cattle.
And so we raise our glasses for the final toast,
We yell for the room to hear one last boast.
And now it is quiet in the room of pastel, the bed empty and the body a shell.
And all those around us in quiet resolve thinking thoughts quietly to themselves,
The remnants of a life, many mementos on those crowded shelves.
The plaques on the wall, the photo albums filled with snaps,
The internet Facebook with all the minute updates of life’s facts.
And soon the fading begins and the memories get distorted,
Did he or she do that or is that a story that was courted?
Generations from now the mind plays tricks and the facts get twisted,
Some truths are lies, and lies are become facts and those all get listed.
But for some reason there is a smile when the name comes up and the stories told,
He or she was strong in some ways and in some ways strange and in some bold.
The strains of the ghost are hard to take hold,
Gone too soon, and now the story will unfold.