sometimes we talk to the ones who are gone

sometimes we talk to the ones who are gone
but it’s ok because no one knows
and we’ll keep our secrets tight-fisted
and close to our hard-barred chests

i won’t tell the wicked world
the things you do in the dark
if you lay a wreath for me sometime
in memory of restraint and quiet passing

sometimes we talk to the ones who are gone
like jesus and muhammed and mum
gone now and mischievously quiet, smiling
as we cry and plead into a dark that does not echo

but there are lights in the sky
and the universe is endless so maybe
it’s all ok and i will be me tomorrow
and not some impostor waking in my skin

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