Word Weeds

The dead will rule the quick at last,
But the quick will still rule the still.

So what if the cat won’t come back,
Can’t come back? Won’t there be more cats?

Oh, you can still the quick to death,
Which is what some folks mean by dead—

The quick caged, propped, stiff, past all touch—
But those are mere shells the quick break.

It’s the quick who take the quick down
To death—think how long you could live

In a world where no lives ate you
Nor did you need to eat to live.

You’d still wear to bits in the end,
But then you’d just be still, not quick,

And, in such a world, who knows if
The still could be said to be dead.

Let’s say they’re not, no more than dust
On stones on a shelf in the sun.

You need to live for what death is.
The weeds you wear to mourn won’t live.