Others live only

in their deep

and ruminating sleep.

They are truly dead.

The dead think about

the things that were,

about the book perhaps

they never read,

Some think about the book

that was never written.

The whiteness

of it's blank pages is

a silent nightmare

in their head.

Some think about

the words

that were never said,

Some about

and the words

that were better

left unsaid

in the world.

Some think about the thoughts

that crystallized into

words, acts and deeds.

Some think about the anger,

Some about the peace .

Some think of those

left still alive,

some of whom are blind

and sleep

while they're left

still standing.

They can't divine

or read or write

the book

before them  .

Some think only of

the child ,

of the children's grief

and about

their suffering.

The thoughts

of the dead float amongst

the monotone drone

of a Tibetan monk's song

and the single strum

and twang of a thick stringed

instrument .

The ruminations if the dead

are long,

bodies now long gone,

they contemplate,

the bag of fertilizer

that they were,

and that we are,

to be spread across

the fabric of the universe.

Their ruminations

move beyond.

They think of the

gate

and of the broad

and upward tree

that spreads

well past the ages

unto the ages

and beyond.