The Lonesome Dead

So where are all the others, It is hardly worth my time,

What happened to your friends you said you'd bring along.

A box was buried in the woods beneath the milky sky,

Give or take a month from now the birds will fly away.

Your tears no longer move me, like chains they fell away

I have crumpled up the pages of your memory.

The wind is just my laugh and the ocean is my scorn,

In a moment's weakness it will find you out.

To the lonesome dead you are like a book they read,

They don't question your existence through the night.

And they won't try to reach you from that other shore,

And the wail in the dark is just a dog.

She packs her winter clothing and she dresses like a man

And the stars all look down in consternation.

In a tone somewhat accusing they will call her given name,

Like remembering some ancient indiscretion.

The sun rolls like a white ball attended by the birds,

With whom she sings while time slips through her fingers.

Her father's walk, her mother's eyes, she will not pass them on;

It is understood she will go no further.

To the lonesome dead....

According to our records that were salvaged from the fire,

You were born in Nova Scotia in December.

Your service to your country is noted in these lines,

It is unknown what was in the missing pages.

We knew your father well, he worked until he died;

Somewhere I used to have a photograph.

The moon within the attic and a voice within the leaves,

These are your birthright, they are yours for the taking.

To the lonesome dead....