they want to canonize you, you know.
build a memorial in your honor and
pay tribute to your existence every hour
because you were such a wonderful,
beautiful, perfect person.

they won't listen to me (i am just
one small voice among many
that never knew you), but
something about this sanctification doesn't
ring true to me. after all,
no one is ever as perfect
as they are when daubed at
with the hues of Death.

so in the mercenary interest of my own safety,
i'll keep this heresy to myself—
i'm sure that you were just like us.

even worse—
i hesitate to say this, but i have to admit that
on the few occasions i encountered one of you,
i wasn't overly impressed.

however, voicing this stray thought would give me
worse chances than a snowball
in august,
so i believe i'll remain silent,
in the interests of the people who knew
and loved them.

after all, it is harder to live
than to die,
more courageous to stand one's ground and go on
while feeling the absence of a presence
where it used to be.

which is why what i write is probably
considered sacrilege.
but it's true—
you are
(the beauty of humanity is that it lives on
after Death, and so there is no were for you)
and that is why i mourn you.