i whisper to the dead things

i can't entirely help it, i feel like death becomes lonely

the sparrows and finches i find on these crumbling country roads

beautiful feathers near broken beer bottles, rubber, and lingering souls

i tell them sorry like that will bring them back

these evening walks become funerals

these wildflowers, i can't even get the strength to pick them for respect

there has been enough death for today, i bet

i take stiff butterflies inside my home and lay them so they can rest

i gift them honey, lavender, and rose petals to show there is kindness at least in death

i take in the small bones I find and clean them in hydrogen peroxide

so later when I throw them like dice, they will tell me where my future lies

i believe it is important to have open conversations with death

i  think our old lives linger even after we say these goodbyes

we are stuck staring at familiarity and analyzing life

and when we have absorbed enough, we rise

here is to my worms who refuse to die

who when broken apart create more than one life

here is to the stray black cats who wander through busy city streets

to the unfortunate souls with a lucky streak

they can't just kill us and we keep popping up

we're dandelions and chameleon plants, we're resilient and tough

these vultures they circle around us and we pretend it's our halo

circle of life, circle of death, die to be born again

i whisper to the dead things and they tell me what they know

they force me to view ugly truths and to accept decay in order to find growth

it is easy to wave a finger at a grim reaper, it is hard to let go

i guide these spirits on their trip back to life and they teach me to not fear but to hope