She was not a happy camper
as the final curtain fell.
"Whoever scheduled this" ,she said,
"will surely rot in hell."

Death cannot be fathomed,
an exit to another place.
It’s the dying that I’m robbed of
no panache, no style no grace

She’d have done it so much better
were she given one last chance.
But she wasn’t to be the piper
at this, her final dance.

Had there been one in the offing
We’d have missed her at the wake.
But we’d all been given orders
to do nothing for her sake.

And so we did.

I had a friend last month
who perished.

The void left by her passing
Was sized to our perceptions.
That each divined a hole in space
was true without exception

She’d looked death in the eye before
and fought it to a draw.
But finally the boatman came
and read us all the law.

"There are many lives to be lived
by others when you're done
No matter how you try
you only get but one."

"And you gawkers, you’re not helping
By clinging to her so
She’s overdue across the stream
So she really must let go."

And so she did.

I had a friend last year
Who passed.

The space she left upon the void
often pulsing, sometimes still,
approaches next to nothing
but depart it never will.

Now and then the space expands
and wanders through the night
It usually only happens
When I’m more than a little tight.

I really don’t believe in ghosts
but it’s somehow satisfying
to view her in complete control
of the space left by her dying